#ceallach aep gruffyd

[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."

[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. 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