Chapter Text
On nights like these, when the moon was waning and the air was biting, they sat around the fire. They told stories of traveling, sailing, wolves, monsters, women, and family. Of deals, and memories, and of kings long gone. Sang familiar songs, popular bardic ballads, and trader shanties. They cracked jokes, mocked one another, and spoke in crude dialects that noblefolk resented.
The air grew crisper, as the summer humidity was wrung out into dry cold. Fall was on their doorstep. Or maybe it was the nearing desert that ushered in the chill. Magic was her expertise. Geography was not.
Yennefer sat on the ground as well, prickly wiregrass tormenting her behind through her robes. Although the mage preferred to travel alone, delighting little in the people of The Continent, she deemed it appropriate to join a traveling party. If she was caught alone on the pilgrimage, she’d surely be recognized by patrolling guards. The voyage south to Cintra was an arduous one; it was one which took about two weeks of walking or one on horseback. The witch, therefore, assumed the robes of common folk. Drab scraps of brown, gray, and off-white fabrics draped over her body, concealing her form entirely. Yennefer lamented her likeness to a pillowcase, but such were necessary measures.
She had a scarf wrapped around her head and neck. It was green, an expensive fabric. It had been a gift from one of the merchantmen traveling with her. He was entertaining to her; his mundaneness amused her. Even so, she absolutely could not remember her plaything’s name. Something with an H, perhaps? Henri, Hagar, Harold? He was as lousy in bed as he was lacking in personality, so Yenn saw no reason to commit it to memory.
The party consisted of 7 people and two mules. Pitre (an experienced salesman), Ramona (his wife), Pitre’s brother (H), and three other merchantmen (Bront, Antoni, and Edmund). The men were loud, drinking from flasks and laughing deep, bellowing guffaws.
The way that she had joined them was this: Yennefer had been spending time in a sleepy village North of her hometown of Vengerberg. It was a small trading outpost, only one tavern, market stalls, and a few houses. The maps know it at Yaggan. This hamlet, situated in a valley between two mountain peaks, was always covered in a layer of fog. It was thick fog; it hung over Yaggan like vapors above a boiling pot of stew. Tangentially, Yaggan was populated by agricultural folks. Those who stayed were farmers, mostly, taking advantage of the valley’s rich alluvial soil. The rest were migratory. They drifted in and out of Yaggan with exotic goods and tired mules and stories of distant lands to share with childhood friends.
Yenn was an outsider here, no doubt. While shopping for food at the market, she encountered an old woman, Alicja. Alicja was a blind alchemist with no children. She took a liking to Yennefer, offering her a place to lay her head and eat. The old woman taught her basic practices and botany around the Yaggan valley, keeping Yennefer’s hands and mind busy. She enjoyed the work. The next few months were spent crafting common cures and salves for the hamlet’s sick and dying.
As winter neared, Yaggan’s transitory population began to load their now-rested mules. They packed as many agricultural products as they could into large burlap sacks and flung them over the backs of their mules. Children were left with friends and family members. After the first party set out, the others followed in quick succession.
It was before the final party left that Alicja urged Yenn to join them.
“You’re young,” Alicja mused, in a gravelly rumble. “Go with them. The shop will wait for you.”
Yennefer had looked at her, and seen then not a frail old woman, but a wise mentor. Though the veins in her hands stuck out like branches from a tree, she was grounded. Yennefer knew that she couldn’t keep hiding, lurking in settlements on the margins of society. She had someone to find, and somewhere to be. Tissaia.
So she had hugged Alicja a warm good-bye, and approached the final party. Here she met Pitre and Ramona. She offered them a collection of various medicines in exchange for passage into Cintra, which was where they were headed. Pitre happily obliged, as medical salves were a rare and valuable commodity.
She was here now, buttocks on the ground and eyes watching the fire, accompanied by a ragtag gang of crafty traders. They were children of Yaggan, and they knew each other by their parents’ crops. Bront and Edmund were cabbage boys, while Antoni boasted turnips. Pitre’s collective had cultivated potatoes.
Their fireside banter was thus familiar and lighthearted.
“Ain’t anyone ever told you,” Antoni howled in a thick Northern accent, one which was rough and intimidating “not to mess with drowners, Bront?”
Bront harrumphed, rolling his eyes from across the glowing belly of the fire. Its tendrils illuminated many scars on his scruffy face. One across his lips, pink and jagged. One across his right eye, which he covered with a cloth patch. “Ah. The leper accuses another leper of leprosy,” He rebutted. “Don’t pretend like we can’ see the fucker on your forearm.”
“Ah, this old thing?” The other held up his arm, showing off a forecep riddled with gnarled scar tissue. “Rite a’ passage. Those fishy cocksuckers always have heaps a’ treasure. Wares for business.”
“Aye,” Bront smirked. “Business, brother.” There was an echo of rambunctious and cackling laughter from the party, but Yenn stayed silent. Her eyes rose and fell with the fire, fascinated by its creeping width. It lapped hungrily at its wood fodder, consuming the cedar log beneath it egregiously quickly. H had one more log at his side. After that one was burned, the party would sleep and rise with the sun.
The wedded merchant, Pitre, took a long sip from his flask and eyed Yennefer. “Girl,” He called, flashing a smile that revealed missing teeth. “You ever seen a monster?”
“Hmm?” She responded, albeit absentmindedly.
She didn’t realize, at first, that she had been spoken to. She was busy studying the ground, and the sky, and the smoke which drifted up from the fire. Their location was obvious to any bandits who might be roaming the area. But these merchants had been traveling from Yaggan to Cintra for many years. The knew the route and they knew its people. She would hate the receive magic advice from non-mages, so she bit her tongue.
“Monsters,” Pitre repeated, impatiently. He made a haughty huff, one which held such a low pitch that Yenn felt it shake the ground, a gentle earthquake. “Surely the alchemist knows something of monsters. Tell us a story.”
The others concurred, a chorus of “story!” following.
“Monsters, aye?” Yenn purred. “Funny enough, I’m speaking to one. You looked in a mirror lately, toothy?”
The other men erupted in reeling laughter, which Yennifer enjoyed. “You’re one to laugh, pirate,” She called to Bront. “Nice eyepatch, by the way.”
They continued to giggle. Pitre seemed especially satisfied. “Get Hagar next,” He beamed.
Ah, Hagar. So that was his name. She’d forget it again, surely, but it had been on the tip of her tongue, which was most frustrating.
“Hagar,” She quipped. “I’d say something of you, but even the most boring monster is more interesting than you. I’d much rather sleep with a Striga, I think.”
The men, again, shouted and cheered. Ramona’s eyes burned holes into Yenn’s chest. When the din died down, she spoke.
“You’re no merchant. You’re not Yagganish. Why are you headed to Cintra?”
The others turned their eyes to her, also curious.
Yenn shifted in her position. She spent a lot of time in her head and hated being asked questions. When questions were being asked, she preferred to be the one in control. But she needed these people, albeit for a few more days.
“I’m looking for someone.” This was a true statement. She had no reason to lie. However, she was looking for someone who was nearly impossible to find. Tissaia tended to be the “seeker.” She remained tucked away at Aretuza until she was required elsewhere. Of course, the simple solution would be to go straight to Aretuza.
That would be too obvious, though. Yennefer wanted to be found. She wanted her mentor to miss her in the same longing way that Yenn yearned for her. She hoped Tiss’ interest would be piqued by Yenn’s entrance into Cintra, a kingdom with disdain and distrust for witches. It was risky. But for Tissaia? Worth every bit.
“A lover?” Bront cooed, nudging Hagar with a shoulder. Hagar pouted.
Yennefer grunted. The prying was infuriating. Her life was far too complex for their small minds to understand. Life was more than eating, selling, and fucking, for god’s sake.
She played along.
“Yes.” The word rolled off her tongue far too quickly. It tasted sweet, but sent foreboding shivers down her spine. Her hands felt heavier, and as she eyed them, she noticed that her knuckles were turning white from the tight grip she was keeping in her balled fists. White, like the innermost tips of the fire. White, like the crests of the waves that licked Aretuza’s jagged cliffs. Was “lovers” what they were? Lovers, or just friends? Lovers, or just two people drifting apart as the years weathered them down?
If she went back to Aretuza, she could be with Tiss. Help teach, or just help with research. More notable mages resented Yennefer, but Tissaia had always known she was gifted. Tissaia was the first person to find her worth anything. Ever.
“What’s ‘is name?” The men jeered. Antoni offered her a drink from his flask. Yennefer swallowed a mouthful, unaffected by the stinging aftertaste.
“I don’t remember.” She said simply.
The men looked confused, but with what little sense they had, they knew to stop prodding. Hagar tossed the last log on to the fire, which had fallen to just a flicker of orange, nibbling on ashen morsels.
“I am going to sleep,” Yennefer announced. The rest of her companions mumbled brief “goodnights,” but quickly returned to graphic discussions of carnal pleasures. Yenn was sorry for the women.