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It’s been over 50 years, since Voren last saw Hynne in the flesh. Letters slowly dwindled, became sparse with the years. Hynne was a big witcher, or big for a cat, at least, with a voice to match. With his mere presence he could fill a room with sound, not like Voren, who drew into himself, wishing for the shadow and silence of a well-protected corner. It was unusual, to not hear from the Cat for so long, but Voren was never pushy. And anyway, the two of them? It just wasn’t like that. They never shared a bed with the intention of pleasure, only because of utility, or - occasionally - for the comfort of some who understood. There has been an understanding between them, shared in the breath between herbal painkillers and heated stones, bandages and splints. They weren’t meant to survive for long, but they’ll damn well do everything in their power to challenge the odds.
Voren tried not to think about it, about what the missing letters meant, but when the pain got so strong that even his heat compress couldn’t help, on rainy days on the Path, or back at the blasted hilltop of Haern Caduch, the scent of Sweet Flag brought forth memories long buried. It was usually accompanied by the remarkably and ironically bitter taste of the medicinal herb, crushed under his teeth or diluted in tea.
It was the first advice Voren got from Hynne - swapping out the nigh’ useless (and frankly costly) Swallow for a more effective pain reliever. The second was secured around his ruined left arm; leather braces encasing his fingers, with a metallic rod keeping the aid in place, soft clothe making sure that dirt and sweat won’t misalign the contraption.
Many of the brace pieces has been replaced before - half a century is nothing to sneeze at, after all - but the wide leather strap by his palm is still original; the face of a snarling cat burnt black into it. Frequent use has made the material soft to the touch, the design faded, but Voren can still recall the details in all it’s sharp edges.
Voren was on a hunt. An unusual one, if you ask Yyren, but nobody does, so Yyren can keep their thoughts to themselves. The spymaster has heard hearsays about a Cat being run out of town on the southern border of Brugge, near the Armush Mountains, and - as instructed - penned a letter immediately. The description he gave - “wide-shouldered with scars running down the side of his neck” - would have been generic, if not for the inclusion of a tiny detail: “black leather encasing his left hand from the wrist-down”.
So now here was Voren, trudging through foliage, breathing the stagnant air of caves peppering the hillside, in the sheer hope that his Cat was alive. No easy task, with the autumn turning colder by the day, rain and harsh wind making the bones in his arm feel like they were splintering anew. Voren gritted his teeth against the pain, but refused to indulge in more Sweet Flag, in case it muted his senses to the already fading trail.
On the fourth day of the journey, he camped on the edge of a meadow. Lighting the fire with flint and steel, he put on a pot to boil for tea and readied himself for another night of meditation.
A branch cracked in the forest behind him. Voren sighed, and his shoulders dropped in relief. With his eyes closed, the slow heartbeat reverberated in his ears even louder. It was a heartbeat he hasn’t heard in half a century.
When a gloved hand traced over the scar marring his cheek, he couldn’t help but lean into it, and the palm came up to cradle his head gently.
“Your hair is more silver than red, Bear.”
Voren huffed in tired amusement. His smile curled up lopsided and a bare, calloused finger traced over the edge of it. With a slight shift of his head, he kissed that trembling, scarred fingertip. The tremor of them mirrored his own - nerve damage and excitement weaving together to create a shared staccato rhythm playing on his lips. Finally, he glanced up into eyes like coal which sparked with the embers of tenderness. Voren’s sluggish heart sped up.
“Missed you too, Cat.”