#ceallach aep gruffyd

[astaldis]

Hi! I love the Witcher and Eamon Farren :)

I learned yesterday that Cahir's father, Ceallach aep Gruffyd, will be in season 4! (played by Christopher Sciueref). Flashback or in Emhyr’s court?

Good question! It seems there is no information about that yet though. They also cast young Cahir, so there'll probably be flashbacks, I'd assume. I don't know about at court, I guess it's possible, but after S3 I had the impression that Cahir's father and brothers are dead as Cahir said that he lost his money long before he was kicked out of the palace. I thought that alluded to the Usurper taking away the families possessions when he was a kid. But if Ceallach is alive and Emhyr's seneschal, wouldn't he give Darn Dyffra and other family possessions back to him? So, I don't know. But whatever it is, I can't wait to see it! Hopefully this summer!

[horsegirlcahir]

okay well. @nothingbutvainfantasy this is probably not at all what you wanted but i had feelings about cahir and also about horses and also about cahir and horses.

Dheran catches him.

It's a stupid thing, foolish and childish, a shameful reason to be brought before his grandfather. Dheran doesn't tell their father then, and Cahir never knows if he ever tells him; Ceallach goes along with the old ways as expected in public, but inside his own home, his wife's Northern influence holds more sway.

It isn't that Dheran is trying to get him into trouble. Cahir knows that. He's only trying to help. In Nilfgaard, only children and girls name their animals, not soldiers.

("Llwyna," he had said, trying the name out, foreign and strange in his mouth, for Nilfgaardian comes from the Elder Speech but he is seven years old and only just beginning to grasp their differences. The filly had snorted and nudged her head into the hand stroking her velvety nose, nuzzling into his palm. Dheran had been in the stables. Cahir hadn't seen him, hadn't been paying attention.)

Gruffyd aep Dair, huge in his intensity, summons him to his sitting-room, asks him what it means - she-fox, Cahir says very quietly, hands behind his back, she's red, like a she-fox - and praises him on his knowledge of the Elder Speech. The little chestnut is gone by morning, and her stall remains empty until spring.

Cahir pretends not to notice, and when the reins of a mouse-grey yearling are handed to him as the weather begins to grow warm, he never once says her name - Dryw, he thinks, like the ones that nest outside the kitchens - aloud.

-----

He takes the black stallion out of stubbornness and spite at twenty-one, because Ifan and Gwilym laugh when he stakes his claim. He's a beautiful creature, well-built and gleaming like jet, without a fleck of white to be seen, with amber-golden eyes the size of apples.

When they take control of the castle and its stables, the beast is ill-tempered and half-mad. The stablemen in this far-flung, forsaken end of the Empire seem to only have known their trade so far as whips are concerned, and the first time Cahir sets a hand on his neck, the stallion very nearly takes a chunk out of his forearm.

If he had sense, he would leave it be; after enough beatings, even a royal mount will accept its new place as a plow-horse, and someone will be able to make use of it. But Ifan and Gwilym and the others are watching -

And the stallion shies away from his hands when he sets a bridle on its brow, quivers faintly when he brushes it down with a handful of straw. He could, he thinks, find another mount that requires less of him, and leave this one to its fate.

He loses the stallion four years later, on Thanedd, with everything else.

-----

The colt dances with terror when he approaches, paying no mind to his soft words or his open, extended hands. Its reins are wrapped around a low-slung tree limb, tied well - no accident - and tell Cahir precisely what happened, as though the colt itself is speaking: they tied me here and never returned, though they said they would. They left me, they left me, they left me.

He isn't a colt, really, Cahir thinks later, watching the horse bury its face in a feedbag that he had backtracked half a mile to take off of a dead man's half-burned wagon, his horses long fled. There's barely anything at the bottom, but the colt gets every crumb and gnaws on the burlap beside. A yearling, or a little under; he still has the gawky, gangly look of a colt, but he's well on his way to his adult size, which Cahir suspects will be quite respectable.

"Where did you come from," he asks quietly, and the colt glances at him sidelong from its patch of mostly-dry grass. "Were you some child's? You're certainly no warhorse."

Despite that, the colt is old enough and large enough to ride; if he had been in his officer's armor, it would be different - but he isn't, and likely won't be again. He'd taken clothes from an overturned carriage barely a mile from where he had been freed from his coffin, ill-fitting but good enough to fit his purposes; they're largely wool and linen, barely noticeable to a horse, and he has very little else that could be a burden.

He'll find tack in the morning, he thinks, stretching out on his newly-pilfered bedroll, luxuriating in his newfound ability to do so, and with luck the colt won't shy from the smell of his dead brethren. A saddle and a bridle - even just a bridle will do in the short term - and something to eat for the both of them. Then they'll catch up with the Witcher, the two of them, together.

Cahir falls into a restless sleep, and when he dreams, he dreams of ashen hair and golden eyes and fire.

[boundlss]

i look upon netwitcher with despair because cahir will do anything in it and i'll remember ceallach dyffryn aep gruffyd kneeling at the emperor's throne and begging for emhyr to forgive his son. i think about cahir joining the war because he wanted to make sure it was won so his mother would never cry again. i think about cahir travelling behind the hansa, too scared to approach them but too lost to go anywhere but there

sometimes i'm having a normal day and then i remember the way netwitcher stripped away everything about cahir's character to make him some sexy villain and then didn't leave any room for his "redemption" to even be believable because original cahir is such a good character okay? he's such a good character okay? i will never forgive you netwitcher.

[incorrect-the-witcher-quotes]

Every parent wants to see their child do well, but I'd be lying if I didn't admit that watching my loser son fail at everything he tries has been pretty entertaining

Ceallach about Cahir

[ofelia-juz-nie-wroci]

I should’ve made a sandwich instead of making you

— Ceallach aep Gruffyd (about Cahir of course)

[astaldis]

Issue no 36 - Long Story

Fandom: The Witcher (TV)

Whumpee: Cahir

Whumper: Vernon Roche, Tissaia de Vries

Caretaker: Triss Merigold

Summary: After the Battle of Sodden Hill Cahir is captured by the enemy who wants information. Which the young Nilfgaardian commander is not willing to give away easily. The Emperor of Nilfgaard is not in a forgiving mood, either. (Written before S2 dropped, Warning: Dead dove, do not eat)

Published: 2021-10-11; Completed: 2021-10-20; Words: 17,051

Excerpt from Chapter 4 - Magic:

Tissaia de Vries had spent most of the night and morning searching the battlefield for Yennefer. She had called out for her former student a hundred times, asked everybody who might have seen her, but to no avail. The black-haired sorceress that had won them yesterday's victory over the far superior Nilfgaardian forces had not been among the dead bodies, nor the wounded. She had completely vanished after the firestorm like fallen off the face of the earth. Certainly the most plausible explanation was that Nilfgaard had taken her. Then she would be in a hell of a lot of trouble. And need all the help she could get. But the one man who might be able to tell her what had happened to Yennefer was still unconscious from last night's torture. Not that she pitied him, on the contrary, the Nilfgaardian definitely deserved everything that was coming at him now that he was their prisoner, and more. He, together with that crazy bitch Fringilla, was responsible for the attack, for the death of hundreds of their people and of thirteen northern mages, most of them her friends. Fourteen if Yennefer was dead, too, gods forbid. 

It was exceedingly annoying that she could do nothing at the moment but wait for the Nilfgaardian to come to. She looked at the man lying prone on the cold dungeon floor. In just his black shirt and striped trousers he looked quite young, probably not even thirty. With his sharp, high cheekbones, slightly slanted eyes and tall and slender build he could almost pass for an elf, were it not for his normal human ears, of course. He might not be handsome in a classical sense, and surely not at the moment, bruised and battered as he was, but he looked - intriguing. And after what she had heard from Vernon Roche, interrogating the man might turn out to be quite interesting. Unlike Philippa she had never enjoyed breaking into people's minds and, knowing about the high risk for the subject's sanity, had only ever done it if absolutely necessary, however, she might make an exception here. If only the man would wake up already.

With the pointed tip of her shoe the sorceress prodded him in the side where his shirt was cut and the fabric a darker shade of black from dried up blood. He moaned softly. A reaction at last. She prodded again, harder. The Nilfgaardian - or Vicovarian - heaved a loud groan, his eyelids fluttering.

Tissaia motioned to the two guards who were standing by the dungeon door. 

"The prisoner is waking up. Put him in the chair, fetter him and then leave us alone," she ordered.

The guards grabbed the groaning prisoner and manhandled him into the stone chair in the middle of the mostly dark room, the only natural light falling in through a stained glass window high up in the thick stone wall bathing the strange, ornamented chair in a bluish light. They closed the heavy iron manacles the chair was fitted with around the prisoner's wrists, then did the same with the ankle shackles. Completely worn out from his ordeal of the previous night and still too dazed to realise what was going on, the Nilfgaardian had not even tried to put up a fight.

[...]

The sorceress with the beautiful chestnut coloured hair looked at the man lying prone on the dungeon floor. As a healer she should feel empathy and compassion, but instead she experienced a strong sense of aversion, even loathing. This was the commander of the Nilfgaardian army that had attacked them. He was responsible for the worst hours in her life, for the cruel death of innocent refugees and northern soldiers, of some of her best friends. And for the painful burns she had sustained defending the castle's entrance against the advancing enemy soldiers. She herself had barely recovered from her injuries yet, not being able to treat them with her magical potions due to her allergy. And she would never wear a dress with a plunging neckline ever again. Because of that Nilfgaardian bastard. Who she now was supposed to treat. On the king's orders. 

Triss stepped closer. The Nilfgaardian was still unconscious, had been ever since Tissaia had finished with him almost three days ago. Maybe he would die one way or the other, whether she helped him or not. It would probably be the best for the man anyway. King Foltest had not yet revealed any details of his plans for the prisoner to her but it was obvious that she was only to restore him to health so he could be executed later. If you asked her, a pointless waste of precious potions and her likewise precious time which she could use to help people who actually deserved it. Well, she was not in the mood to argue with the king, so she should probably get on with her task, even if she hated it. And him.

It did not look too good. The prisoner felt alarmingly hot to the touch, running a dangerously high fever, probably from infection. She took care of the badly inflamed gash on the back of his head first. This wound ought to have been cleansed and stitched up days ago. Magically she removed the dirt, dried blood and pus, poured a disinfectant potion into the wound, put in several stitches, and applied a magical salve to speed up the healing process. Then she dressed the wound. The Nilfgaardian did not stir nor make a sound which made her task easier. However, it was not a good sign in regard to his condition. Which was a lot worse than could be caused by the laceration in his scalp alone. Well, her job was probably not done yet. Triss sighed. More injuries to uncover and treat...

[astaldis]

@chaos-company   @whumpril

Chapters: 1/1  Words: 500 Fandom: The Witcher (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach & Ceallach aep Gruffyd Characters: Ceallach aep Gruffyd Additional Tags: whumpster-dumpster's Whumpril 2024, chaos-company's Angstpril 2024, Self-Doubt, Broken-hearted

Summary: Ceallach aep Gruffyd's loses everything, and, worst of all, his youngest son. Companion piece to "One Day".

Inspired by the Angstpril prompt 3 "Broken-hearted" and the Whumpril prompt 9 "Self-doubt."

[astaldis]

Issue no. 32 - Kneeling: Long Story

@whumpers-monthly

Fandom: The Witcher (TV)

Whumpee: Cahir

Characters: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, Tissaia de Vries, King Foltest of Temeria, Vernon Roche, Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, Blue Stripes special forces, Triss Merigold, Emhyr var Emreis, Rience, Ceallach aep Gruffyd

Rating: Mature

Warnings: GDoV, torture

Words: 17,051; Chapters: 8/8

Written pre-season 2

Excerpt from Chapter 5: A Special Occasion

"Today, we shall not only honour the memory of our fallen brothers and sisters, mages and humans alike, and form a lasting alliance with the Aen Seidhe, the People of the Hills, against the Nilfgaardian aggressor," King Foltest concluded his speech, "but also see justice done. Bring forth the prisoner!"

The guards walked the Nilfgaardian toward the head of the hall where King Foltest was standing. Adjacent to the monument there was a wooden platform, on it a shrouded, mysterious cuboidal structure that was now revealed as an executioner's block. 

"This here," King Foltest pointed an accusing finger at the shackled man, "is the Nilfgaardian commander who led the attack on Sodden Hill and thus is responsible for the deaths of the heroes we have gathered to commemorate. However, this is not all. He also killed our fellow ruler, King Eist of Cintra!" 

'Murderer!' 'Death to the king-slayer!' and similar angry shouts rang through the hall. Foltest turned towards the prisoner.

"In my authority as King of Temeria, Pontaria and Mahakam and Prince of Sodden, I, Foltest the first, sentence you, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, to death by beheading!" 

On this cue, a tall, bulky, bare-chested man entered the room, his face covered with a pointed black hood with only slits for the eyes, in his hands a heavy axe. The executioner stepped onto the podium. The prisoner, who had drawn himself up proudly, followed, accompanied by two guards. 

"Any last words, Nilfgaardian?"

"I'm not a Nilfgaardian. I'm from Vicovaro," the condemned man said hoarsely and with difficulty, trying to suppress a dry cough.

"Well, that won't change anything. Kneel!"

The prisoner went down on his knees and put his head on the executioner's block on his own accord. A guard parted his longish curls so the executioner would better see where to hit.

"Headsman, proceed!" shouted King Foltest. The executioner raised his axe. 

[astaldis]

Nauseous - Long Story

@whumpers-monthly​

Fandom: The Witcher TV, The Witcher novels

Whumpee: Cahir

Published: 2021-10-11; Completed: 2021-10-20; Words: 17,043

Summary: After the Battle of Sodden Hill Cahir is captured by the enemy who wants information. Which the young Nilfgaardian commander is not willing to give away easily. The Emperor of Nilfgaard is not in a forgiving mood, either. (Written before S2 of The Witcher Netflix) 

Rating: Mature; Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category: Gen

Relationship: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach & Triss Merigold

Characters: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach; Tissaia de Vries; King Foltest of Temeria; Vernon Roche; Vilgefortz of Roggeveen; Blue Stripes special forces; Triss Merigold; Emhyr var Emreis; Rience (The Witcher); Ceallach aep Gruffyd

Additional Tags: Angst; Hurt/Comfort; Cahir whump; caretaker Triss Merigold; Torture; Aftermath of Torture; Waterboarding; magical torture; white-hot poker Execution; Whipping

Excerpt from Chapter 2 - Water: 

"Well done, Roche, as always." King Foltest patted his protege on the shoulder. "Wake the bastard up and interrogate him. I want to know exactly how many Nilfgaardians are hiding in the forest. And what they are planning."

"Your Majesty." Vernon Roche bowed at his king as the monarch was leaving the tent. Then he gave his men some quick orders. Soon one of them reappeared, a bucket filled with water in his hand. With one sweep he splashed the cold content over the black-clad figure lying on the ground face down, hands tied behind his back, his light brown hair matted with blood that was still seeping sluggishly from an ugly gash in the back of his head.

With a start, the prisoner came to. He groaned when rough hands manhandled him into a sitting position against a sturdy tent pole. His head was throbbing with pain, as was his left side. The heavy blow to his head had left him dizzy, nauseous, his vision swimming, and had he eaten anything recently, he would surely have thrown up into the face of the man that was slowly coming into more focus. He swallowed, trying to suppress another groan of pain, not very successfully though.

"You are hurting. That is good. You killed two of my men, Nilfgaardian, and shot at my king. You deserve it," the man said, sneering scornfully at his injured prisoner. "And I promise you'll hurt even more before the night is over. The degree of pain depending on your willingness to cooperate." The man made a meaningful pause to let his words sink in. "Let's start with an easy question," he then continued, venom in his voice. "What is your name, freak?"

Excerpt from Chapter 6 - A Flicker of Hope:

The mysterious hooded stranger who had totally unexpectedly appeared out of nowhere and had, for yet unknown reasons, saved him from the scaffold, pushed him through the brightly shining portal he had created outside the castle grounds only to open another portal. And another after that, and another. When the sorcerer that he doubtlessly was finally stopped hauling him through yet another portal, Cahir felt so dizzy, disoriented and nauseous that his shaking legs gave way and he collapsed to the ground. If he had eaten anything that day, he would surely have thrown up all over his rescuer's black leather boots. Fortunately, with his stomach empty, he only dry-retched a few times. Then he had a harrowing cough attack.

"Not used to portalling much, are you?" Cahir looked up, his lungs burning and eyes watering. In the dimly lit room they had landed in all he could make out of his still hooded rescuer were some strands of black hair and a pair of equally dark eyes. His voice was grating and not very pleasant. However, who was he to look a gift horse in the mouth? The mage had gotten him out of a strongly guarded castle in one piece, certainly at high risk to his own life. This, of course, left the uneasy question of why exactly. Cahir could not think of even one plausible explanation. But, no doubt, he would be informed of it sooner or later. No use bothering his spinning head about it yet.

"This was necessary, you see, to keep other mages off our track. You would not want to be captured and dragged to the scaffold again now, would you?" The sorcerer's voice was not only unpleasant but had a mocking tone to it. However, he bent down behind Cahir and tapped the iron manacles with his ring. Which made them open with a metallic click. Relief flooded through the young Vicovarian. Obviously he was not the man's prisoner. If he was, why would he free him from his shackles?

"Clean yourself up, you stink." The sorcerer screwed up his nose demonstratively. "And make yourself comfortable. My master will want to speak with you first thing tomorrow morning." Sneering through thin lips the mage magically lit some candles and a fireplace in the small room. Then he left, locking the door behind him.

Read the complete story on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34428718

[incorrect-the-witcher-quotes]

Look at my son. Pride is not the word I'm looking for

Ceallach aep Gruffyd, father of Cahir