Here and Now

CW: PTSD, flashbacks

Training was fun for the first time in years. Cahir didn’t have to keep up appearances, didn’t have to be perfect. If he was tired, sloppy, lost a bout, it simply didn’t matter. Truth be told, he lost more bouts than won by a long stretch but that was to be expected when going against a witcher. But he was learning again, allowed to make mistakes, permitted to be a fallible human without consequences. Nobody challenged his authority, rode the momentary gloating fame of beating the White Flame’s chosen one.

In fact, after all that had happened, it was during training that Cahir had laughed for the first time in too long. He loved the secluded freedom Kaer Morhen offered, along with the friendships that were motivated purely on the desire of his company rather than the favours and social standing he could offer.

That wasn’t to say life was a smooth ride. Cahir couldn’t bring himself to go into the armoury or the pantry, the rooms too small and the doors had a knack for slamming shut. The one time Lambert had tried to playfully ruffle his hair, Cahir forgot how to breathe, the phantom echoes of fingers pressing against his scalp and tearing through his mind wrenched to the forefront of his thoughts. That evening Lambert had gifted him a hat, saying it would give a bit more protection because he’d managed to weave dimeritium laced thread through it.

Apart from such small hiccoughs, things were fine. Cahir happily clashed blades with Eskel, the familiarity of the weight in his palm, the ringing of steel against steel, it was all a way to relax. When his body was tired his mind didn’t have as much time to dwell on the past. It worked out just fine really.

So caught up in such thoughts, Cahir missed a parry and the world went spinning. There was a tight weight on his wrist as his sword went flying and he was forced to his knees, defenceless and restrained. Breath coming shallow, Cahir couldn’t remember where he was or why. All he could think about was how his wrist ached behind his back, how he was helpless to do anything as he was knelt in front of an audience. Even if it was a different group, Vesemir, Lambert, Geralt were all watching and Eskel was behind him with a sword. The why of it all eluded Cahir but Eskel was a good man. And if he agreed that Cahir needed to be beheaded then it had to be a damn good reason. It wasn’t as if anyone could call Cahir a good guy by any stretch of the imagination. No, he probably deserved it. All Cahir could think of was that at least it was Eskel. He was strong, had a sharp blade and was fair. At least he wouldn’t make Cahir suffer by needing to take several swings to carry out the punishment. The last thing Cahir wanted to was to make it more difficult for Eskel. Not like there was much he could do but he tried. Bending his head, he gave Eskel a clear view of his neck and held his breath. He wasn’t going to cry. That wouldn’t be fair on poor Eskel.

For some reason, the blow never came.

The reason was pretty obvious as far as Eskel was concerned. They’d been fighting, he saw an opportunity and took it like so many bouts begore. But never before had Cahir crashed to his knees like that, rigid yet pliant in the worst of ways. The sudden drop in Cahir’s heartrate was as terrifying as he shallow breaths and the haunted, distant gaze before Cahir’s eyes scrunched shut. Somehow that wasn’t even the worst of it. The sword fell from Eskel’s hand as he saw Cahir bend his head, revealing the vulnerable part of his neck in a blatant invitation.

“Cahir?” Eskel’s voice didn’t shake as he slowly walked round to face Cahir. Kneeling down, there was no reaction to his presence except a fine tremor that ran through Cahir. The sour stench of terror permeated the air and Eskel’s face fell. He didn’t expect to be shouldered out of the way by Lambert who plopped down in front of Cahir without explanation.

“Okay, Cahir, buddy,” he said as if it was an everyday conversation they were having, “I don’t need you to talk yet but nod if you can hear me.”

After a moment of tense silence there was a minute nod and Eskel tried not to think how that showed a bit more of Cahir’s neck.

“Good. Again, just nod or shake your head. Do you know where you are?”

A hesitant nod followed by a shake of head. Cahir knew who he was with but not where and why. It was all a bit of a blurry haze.

“That’s okay. You’re in Kaer Morhen. Came here about two moons ago. Do you know who I am?”

“Lambert.” Cahir’s voice was a soft whisper, barely more than a breathless exhale.

“Good. I am indeed the asshole Lambert. Next to me is-”

“Eskel,” Cahir cut in.

“Excellent.” Slowly Lambert extended a hand along the ground until he was certain Cahir would be able to see it. “Can you tell me what’s in front of you?”

There was a frown on Cahir’s face as he squinted at the ground in front of him, arms still behind his back, head bent. “A hand?”

“That’s it! Now, think you can follow it?” Slowly Lambert began to pull his hand back towards himself as Cahir tracked it first with his eyes then had to move his head. It was almost painfully slow, especially as Lambert began to raise his hand until it was next to his own head. But he smiled softly at Cahir who blinked at him in confusion. “There you are.”

“What?” Cahir’s arms fell limply to his side and he swayed, colour rapidly draining from an already pale face.

“You’re okay,” Lambert replied softer than the others had ever heard him before. “Just got a bit confused for a moment, lost in time. But you’re here in Kaer Morhen, you’re safe. What we’ll do is take you to the kitchen, okay? Eskel will carry you. And we’ll have a nice warm drink, maybe a small snack too. Okay?”

Still obviously confused, Cahir gave an obedient little “okay” which was all Eskel needed before scooping him up and holding him close to his chest. Murmurs of “you scared me” and “I’d never hurt you” were easy enough to hear. Lambert followed behind them and gave Vesemir a wry grin when their mentor fell in line with him.

“You were curiously well-versed.”

Lambert shrugged. “Got a friend. He gets like that sometimes.”

An eyebrow was cocked at Lambert as Vesemir read between the lines.

“Maybe you should bring him along next year. If he’s such a good friend.”

The grin on Lambert’s lips turned into something truly happy and excited. “Maybe I will. It’s been a while since Kaer Morhen had some pussy.”

The smack to the back of his head was worth it though and Lambert laughed as Vesemir shook his own in mock disappointment. “Just bring your damn Cat.”

ffxivwrite2021 - #28 Bow

Continued from #27 Benthos (first|second)

((cw: PTSD))

The Lochs, 1552 6AE

She must have fallen asleep again. The grey returned, a formless haze that she slipped in and out of without pause. Sometimes as reality seeped through the interior of the tent took shape, bringing with it the vague awareness of the pale canvas over her head, splotched with dirt and threadbare spots. Other times intruded her cell. Solitary and dark, the stench of waste stinging her nose. But it didn’t matter which vision presented itself to her, for through it all her heart pounded like a drum and a sickness rose up her chest, sharp and acrid in her throat, til her head spun and vertigo struck, seizing her by the ankles and tossing her over as solidity dissolved and the fog claimed her once more.

How long she spent there she couldn’t say, but when her brow rumpled and awareness slipped in, light trickled through the worn canvas- and a hand rested again on her arm.

With a sharp intake of breath Ojene pulled, taking her body with it as she tipped to her side, but just as a foot lashed out against the swallowing wrap around her leg, a face loomed into view.

“Whoa- easy there. I don’t mean you any harm.”

Ojene blinked, once then twice, and the idea of structure solidified. It was the Highlander woman, bent above her. Her bronze skin was lit with a dappling of old rippled scars- they circled up her cheek and crept up one side of the bridge of her nose, bisecting between her green eyes.

“I’m just tryin’ to take a look at your arm,” the Highlander said. “If you’ll let me.”

Her heart quickened in a sudden rush, and Ojene’s eyes narrowed sharply, but there was nothing in the woman’s face that exposed ill intent, just the way her thick brows busheled with concern. Or pity.

Even so… Seizing her right arm just below the shoulder, Ojene rolled over, angling her body away.

“All right,” said the Highlander, a faint sigh billowing out in the final consonants. “But I can tell from here it’s not right. Is it broken?”

Was, steeped a thought, but it seized up before it even hoped to approach Ojene’s throat, as if it struck a barrier held entirely apart from her mouth and tongue.

“If it’s broken now,” the Highlander continued, speaking for both of them, “then we can put it in a quick splint, but- if it’s worse than that I dunno how much we can do. Least not here, but there’s a medical camp we can take you to out in the Fringes, if we can find it. You’re not the only one we gotta take.”

A furrow kneaded between Ojene’s brows, and she peeked back at the Highlander over her shoulder, but the woman was looking elsewhere. Ojene followed her eye, and with a sparking shock she saw at once they weren’t alone. For though a stack of crates huddled at her left, the rest of the tent crammed with bedrolls- and in them other people. Six in all, apart from her.

She seized upon their faces in a desperate flurry, one by one, but the young Hyur boy who stood beside her on the gallows wasn’t there. Nor was the first person the Garleans took- the Hellsguard. But as their likeness flashed before her eyes, so too came the memory of the rope. Hard and wirey, its twine scratching her throat, the promise of tension coiling up, ready to be drawn tight-

With an incoherent noise, Ojene clutched a hand to her neck and slumped forward.

“Right,” the Highlander pushed to her feet and turned away. “All of you! Sorry to have to do this so soon, but we gotta get on the move. If you can’t walk or you’re damn slow we’ll load you on the cart. We can’t give the Imps a chance to find us, so speak up now if you need a hand.”

Noises rustled through the narrow confines of the tent, the low tattoo of voices interspersed by the occasional cry. Of pain perhaps, but every so often a whimpering sound struck through to Ojene’s marrow, turning her blood to ice. She gripped onto the bedroll with her good left hand as footsteps swirled around her, and one by one with the slip of wood over wood the company of crates disappeared.

Finally a pair of boots stopped where the crates once were, mud caked liberally over the sides of drab Resistance leather, and a new person kneeled down in front of her. A Miqo’te, her black hair tailed behind her head. Tattoos triangled this way and that across her face, framing her dark eyes as she regarded Ojene squintingly.

“One more for the cart, do you think?”

“Think so,” came the Highlander’s voice from the other side. “But she tries to punch me every time I touch her.”

Ojene shot a sharp glance over to see the Highlander kneel down at her opposite shoulder, the soldiers flanking her sides. A sudden prickling ripped up her spine, and she coiled her body in on itself as she hunched.

“Listen,” said the Miqo’te. “We gotta get you in the cart. You think you’ll be alright with that?”

“We’re not gonna hurt you,” the Highlander added. “We’re gonna wrap our arms under you and carry you out, and then we’re gonna lay you down and you won’t have to move for a good long while. All right?”

Slumped onto her back and pinned between them, their bodies enclosing around her, Ojene gripped her right arm close to her chest. The soldiers leaned closer, and her heartbeat quickened as she pressed herself backwards, the crown of her head budging into the side of the tent. A snarl caught in her throat, attenuating into a low animalistic thrum.

The soldiers shared a glance.

“If you don’t want us to move you, then you gotta move yourself,” the Miqo’te said. “We have to go.”

Ojene didn’t.

At first the Miqo’te frowned, but as she edged a hand forward Ojene felt the contortion in her face. The way her nose rumpled, her lips lifted. Curling back in a wolflike snarl as her heart leapt in her chest, tumbling over itself in quick, tumultuous beats as sweat broke out across her arms.

Startled, the Miqo’te yanked her hand back. “Rhalgr’s teeth.”

Lobbing quickly to her feet, she crossed away from Ojene’s left side to join the Highlander on the right. A fragment of tension attenuated, but the thunder of her heart did not- the urge to lunge away into the open space twitched in her legs.

“How long do you think they had her?” the Miqo’te whispered. Had it been anyone else, perhaps it would have been quiet enough.

But as the Highlander turned her head, Ojene heard every word as the soldier whispered back, “Long enough.”

ffxivwrite2021 - #27 Benthos

Continued from #25 Silver Lining (link)

((cw: PTSD, implied torture))

The Lochs, 1552 6AE

She was floating. Gently suspended in a fuzzed grey. Like a fog, rolling off the creek that ran through her childhood village. Or the sea… It had been so long since she’d seen it. She thought she might have smiled, had she the capacity. The improbable expanse of blue cast around her, gliding gently over her arms, her legs, her face. Each powerful swell was like the surge of a great beast, far more powerful than she. At the slightest provocation it could seize her in its jaw and crush her between its teeth. And yet she floated, and in drifted an inexorable sense of peace.

This must be it, she wondered. How much longer til she saw the Gates of Thal- though perhaps she’d passed through without realizing. This could be one of the heavens, she supposed, although it would be a great shock to get here instead of being summarily deposited into one of the hells.

But perhaps it was so. And by the will of the gods, she could descend into repose. She closed her eyes, or at least had the sense of doing so but nothing about her surroundings darkened, and consigned herself to the abyss.

She would have been content to stay here forever, she thought, yet there was a peculiar tug in her gut. Like a hand gripped her side and pulled, and in the featureless pale void she felt herself begin to spin. Slowly at first, in a gradual rotation of her body, then faster, like an undertow gripped at her legs and sucked them in. She sat up, or at least she thought she did, but she felt her balance teeter perilously forward, and in a desperate lunge she grabbed out at the fog but seized nothing. No purchase, no succor, just the sense of the whirlpool seizing her up and plunging her head first into the darkness of oblivion.

The first thing she felt was a weight on her arm.

With a sudden snap that resounded in her jaw, Ojene flailed to life. Her limbs flung out in every direction, but something snaked around them tight, and she convulsed with violent force, ripping and tearing with teeth and fingers alike til the bindings fell away and she toppled- hard. Her shoulder struck something solid but she rolled, basilisk-like over the floor til she pulled her feet beneath her and staggered up.

A hand touched her shoulder. She whipped around, and to her shock her hands parted, no manacles binding them tight as they flew fist first. The impact jarred up her arm with a meaty thwack, and the pressure ripped off her shoulder. A shriek poured into her ears like a banshee scream, unnatural and bloodcurdling, and on blind feet she staggered forward, groping every which way as she stumbled into a thick film, then spilled out- and at once she was enveloped by white.

Ojene froze. Pain seared into her eyes, a blinding blur that shattered all vision and yet she could see it so clearly. The ghoulishly placid face, pale and smiling, haloed just outside the blinding sphere as a knife laid against Ojene’s bared middle, til the face turned and washed itself out in the spotlight’s glare save for the protruding lump in its forehead, the alabaster pearl of the third eye-

Through the agony Ojene blinked, and slowly the bright shock began to recede as shape and color drew into form. And it was not the searing flame of a ceruleum beacon she faced, the cold metal of the table absent from her back. There were no cermet walls, no squalid stone floor braced by impassable black bars. It was orange stone, dusted with traces of sandy soil. Scraggly brush poking between a crack in the rocks. A soft breeze breathing through her hair. And most of all, once again, the blue expanse of the sky lit by the steadfast sun.

Her legs gave out, and Ojene collapsed to her knees, then fell back on her heels. Her body contorted forward, palms slapping into the ground, and the gravelly dust ground beneath her fingers. A sob seized her throat, crashing through her body in sharp, keening retorts as she toppled onto her side. The flood of tears plastered her cheek to the warm stone, and her hands gripped at her wrists, for the first time in an age striking not relentless metal but her bony wrists.

She seized them so hard her raw skin cried in protest, but the searing pain shot laughter through her tears, a giddy bubble that surged up through her chest and poured forth like a creature spilling out her throat.

A weight pressed to her shoulder, and her body flinched, but as she cracked her eyes open, choking around a strangled noise, a familiar face loomed over her- the Highlander woman who’d pulled her from the gallows. Her mouth moved, but whatever she said Ojene couldn’t make sense of it, and a moment later arms folded beneath her.

The touch seared, and Ojene’s body twisted to deny it as a sharp wave of revulsion overtook her- but the spiking urge to lash out and roll away fragmented somewhere away from her consciousness. Her eyes fixed on the Highlander’s face- the woman was smiling now, a small gentle thing. And somewhere in the sparking pieces of her mind spilled a soft wave of relief. And so Ojene didn’t fight it as they wrapped their arms beneath her and carried her back the way she’d come- into the recesses of a Resistance tent.

There, laid on a thin bedroll, when she turned her eyes upward she saw no sky. But she grabbed her wrists and wrapped her ankles around each other as the new shards of reality began to sink in. The fetters were gone.

She was free.