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When Yennefer wakes, the world is quiet and warm. Blankets, she thinks, after a second. I am covered in blankets. Her fingers move of their own accord, stroking the soft fabric. Brown, green, grey… her muddled brain grasps at colors. Her vision is blurry, but she can see light, an orangey-tinge that casts shadows in the room. It’s evening, then. Outside, she hears birds calling. Closer, the almost imperceptible sound of someone breathing, and a heartbeat, steady and slow. Very slow… But no, that can’t be.
A table. A chair. Maybe; everything is blurry so she can’t be too sure. She doesn’t know where she is or how she got here—and that’s mildly terrifying—but something about this is familiar, something about the smell of this place, about the soft blankets enveloping her. She feels safe.
(But there’s something nagging in the back of her brain. Something she needs to do. Something that isn’t right here. Screams of agony. Explosions and fires lighting up a dark, freezing night. She grasps at the memory, but it slips away.)
Yennefer hears a soft creak, like a chair protesting as someone’s weight shifts off it. Then footsteps echo off the walls—stone, then; wherever she is, the walls are made of stone—and she hears them come closer.
“Yen?”
There’s a clenching in her chest and, for a second, she thinks she’s dead. Because this can’t be real; surely, she must be imagining it. She squeezes her eyes tight, so tight she sees little pinpricks of white amidst the darkness. When she opens them her vision is clear.
“Geralt. You’re—”
“Yen, you shouldn't sit up. Not yet.”
She ignores his advice, then winces at the sharp pain in her abdomen when she tries again. Annoyed, she glances at Geralt again. “Well, go on, help me then.”
“Yennefer…” He warns.
She stares back at him, silently daring him to say anything else.
“Fine,” he grumbles, moving to sit near her on the bed. He helps her sit up, then tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
Yennefer manages to look away from him, away from those golden eyes full of concern, relief, and… something soft she can’t quite decipher. She takes in the bed she’s currently in, heaped with blankets of different colors. An armchair in the corner, a chair and table strewn with random objects. Geralt’s swords in a bag thrown haphazardly in the corner, on the stone floor. And the window, with its view of snowcapped mountains and a forest dusted white with frost. Kaer Morhen. She has been here before, years ago, and it hasn’t changed.
“Why am I here? How am I here? I was in—” Her breath catches.
Sodden.
It comes back to her suddenly. The smell of burnt flesh, acrid, metallic. Dismembered limbs, glassy eyes in faces beaten bloody. The streets full of blood and bodies, squelching under people’s boots. Smoke so thick it burned her eyes as she wandered through the ruins looking, hopelessly, for anyone that was still alive. Can anyone hear me? Blood and smoke. Anyone? And chaos. Coral hacked to pieces then tied to a tree. Triss charred beyond recognition.
She brings herself back by focusing on Geralt.
“How did you…?” She shakes her head slightly and lets out a breath, meeting his eyes. “I didn’t expect to live through it.”
“You almost didn’t. The battle had been over for hours by the time I got there. You were on the ground, unconscious, bleeding. Surrounded by bodies.” He pauses, starts absentmindedly stroking her hair before continuing, “Tissaia was looking for you, too. She never liked me, but she made the portal, told me to bring you here because you’d be safe.”
Despite the pain, despite her headache, Yennefer finds herself almost smiling. “You hate portals.”
“Didn’t have any other options,” he smiles back, before sobering. “Yen, she said you saved them.”
“What was left of them.”
The words come out bitter, surprising her. All she feels is exhaustion, weariness so consuming she didn’t know she still had room for bitterness. She may be a powerful sorceress who has lived for over a century, survived battles and coups and her own self-hatred, but right now she wishes she could hide under these blankets and forget the blood and the pain and the carnage. Forget the harm she’s done and the people she's failed.
“How many?” Her voice doesn’t shake. She might have been proud of herself for that, but it somehow doesn’t matter. He’s always been able to see through her walls.
“Yen…”
“Geralt, please. How many?”
He sighs, the sound weary. “Fourteen."
She looks at him, then. Really looks at him, and sees the dark circles under his eyes, the unhealthy pallor of his skin. Her eyes soften, and she caresses his face gently, running her fingers over the features she knows so well.
“You’re exhausted,” she says softly.
“I couldn’t rest until I’d found you. And then you wouldn’t wake up.” His hand closes over hers. “You scared me.”
She sighs, says nothing for a long while.
“Geralt?”
“Hm?”
“How many days? Since Sodden?”
“Three.”
Silence. When she closes her eyes she sees Sabrina stabbing her on the tower, then her broken body on the ground. It takes her a second to realize she’s shaking. Then Geralt is putting his arms around her and holding her close.
“No, don’t—” She protests half-heartedly, trying to hold herself together.
“Yen. It’s all right."
He holds her, stroking her hair. It’s only then, safe in his arms, that she allows herself to fall apart.
After a while, her breathing evens out. She doesn’t move from where she’s leaning against him on the bed.
“Thank you. For looking for me. For… everything.”
He hums in reply.
“You know, the night before Sodden, I thought I was ready to die. I thought… There wasn’t... I had nothing to leave behind. Nothing to live for. No one who would really care if I…” She trails off, nestling closer without realizing what she’s doing.
“Four marks,” she says after a few seconds. “That’s what I was worth to my father. Before”—she waves a hand vaguely—“everything at Sodden, I thought, I haven’t come very far from that after all."
“I care,” the fierceness in his voice surprises her. “You matter to me. Always, Yen. You know that. When I thought you—"
She leans in for a kiss, cutting him off. Kissing him is familiar, soothing. So much has changed but that’s still the same.
“Go to sleep,” Yennefer says softly. "You haven’t slept in days.”
She shifts, wincing slightly, so that he can lie down beside her. Her fingers caress his hair—gently, softly—until his eyes close. “Rest, witcher. I’m all right.”
“Mhmm. Then you have to meet Ciri…”
“Ciri?”
But he was already asleep.