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Yennefer thinks a lot about ends. The way they’re hardly ever satisfying, at least for very long. There is barely enough time from the finish of something to the beginning of another, so she’s never put much stock in relishing quiet of any kind. It’s why she’s fed on the chaos for so long.
Somehow though, the world has seen fit to get itself together. Blood stays within veins instead of poured out on the ground and Yennefer has to get used to the idea of not expecting a fight for her life regularly. Sure, threats still manifest but the countries, by and large, seem amicable toward one another. Yennefer feels strange in this new world and tries not to anticipate the inevitable. Sometimes the worst monsters are the ones we create.
Never one to stay in a place for too long, she finds herself making her way across the continent. Other options had been presented but Yennefer could not find it in herself to accept them. As someone who had come from nowhere much and never much had a home, rooting herself in one spot seemed a cloying way to live.
The kingdoms were almost as lost as she had been, post Nilfgaardian War, and so they had been surprisingly accommodating toward her presence as an envoy for relations between the various lands of the north and south.
The days have been a blur of sea and countryside-the ships being built at the ports of Cidaris, the sprawling mines of Kovir, and the sweeping grain fields of Redania. Endless faces and discussion over what future these countries see for themselves. Yennefer doesn’t feel attached to any of it but knows that it must be done if she’s ever to have the life she’s managed to scrape together.
Yennefer supposes this immediate transition has been made easier because of who is by her side. There will be a day though when Yennefer is back to being alone. The only difference will be the greatest change Yennefer has ever experienced in her seventy-five years.
The day is one that works the cold into people’s bones and much of it has been spent walking through the late winter slush piled on the streets in Lyria. The place is bleak but the people seem proud and want what’s best for them all. Around every corner they pass, Yennefer searches for yellow eyes. Rivia is not a town she wants to come upon ghosts from the past.
After the meeting, she makes her way to the small wooden building, an unassuming place with a lean-to heaping with drifts, and makes her way inside. It’s grown chillier since the morning hours when she was tucked tightly amongst multiple warmths and she brings the flames in the hearth back to life with a quick bit of magic.
Her boots fall to the wayside as she sits in front of the fire, staring into the licking heat that now presses outward to her limbs and works itself up her entire body. She falls into a daze, loses herself in time. It’s why she doesn’t react to the sound of the door opening and closing behind her, the stamping of feet on the planks of the floor.
She shifts a little to make room beside her and doesn’t have to wait long to be rewarded with new warmth from her body.
Tissaia has thrown off her fur-lined cape and her own boots, letting them come to rest on top of Yennefer’s discarded items. She says nothing as she leans back on her palms, closes her eyes against the light and crackle before her. Yennefer casts a glance in her direction and tries to calm the antelope bounce of her heart.
“Do you ever think about getting older?” Yennefer asks, fingers playing with the pelt rug beneath them. The contrast of touching rough fur and longing to feel soft skin teeters back and forth.
“Is this a comment on my own years?” Tissaia says with a raised eyebrow but keeps her vision cast forward.
“I’m just thinking about what life looks like from here on out. The kingdoms seem complacent which leaves little for a mage to do,” Yennefer shrugs.
“There will always be politics. Even in times without strife, the knowledge and advice of our kind would do well to fall on the ears of kings and queens.”
“How many lands can we cross and rulers can we offer supplication to? Even that seems destined to come to an end eventually. Then what? Where will our place be?” Yennefer asks and feels disquiet rising within her. Like an itch that will never feel the release of a scratch.
“You could teach. Aretuza will always have a spot for you as long as I am its Rectoress.”
Yennefer turns to Tissaia who refuses yet to meet her eyes. She knows what the words do to Yennefer but speaks them still. Almost as if she has to try, to never give up with them, out of fear Yennefer will forget them ever being mentioned.
“And how do they feel about their beloved Rectoress being absent so much of the time lately? Especially when you are choosing to keep your present company.” Yennefer doesn’t hide the pain that’s learned to attach itself onto her words when she talks in terms of the two of them.
“They’ve adapted,” Tissaia says slowly. “Should I want to return, I have been ensured my position will be intact.”
“Yet I’m sure if I were to arrive on your flowing skirt, your generous offer of faculty would somehow not be recognized,” Yennefer bites out. Now she turns fully to face the woman next to her. “We both know Aretuza holds no spot for me.”
“No, I suppose not,” Tissaia concedes, melancholic.
Yennefer reaches between them, takes the small fingers between her own and with the other, moves a strand of hair away from Tissaia’s face. It’s damp from melting snow and cool to the touch. She slides it behind the woman’s ear.
“But you do,” Yennefer whispers and touches their foreheads together.
“Only the deepest spot in me,” Tissaia replies.
It’s no I love you but somehow, it’s infinitely better.
---------------------
She’s never really said it to anyone, but twilight is her favorite. There’s something about the day dying, on its final legs and hanging on to battle it’s inevitable defeat to darkness, that she’s always secretly loved. Standing on the riverbanks, she watches the sun dip ever lower, listens to the waning song of the cicadas and the rising one of the crickets.
Fronds dance with the cool spring breezes and insects skim across the water lazily. The weather will be warmer soon and the nights hot. Even now, sweat beads against Yennefer’s skin and she longs to wash it away with the ever darkening waters in front of her.
It feels as if they’ve traveled the continent twice over, another month working its way on end. The journey has a way of making even Yennefer’s young bones feel weary. Was it so long ago she had wished to see the world and never settle her feet? Now she finds the irony of it, of being in constant motion.
When the sun has painted the clouds with pinks and oranges and blues, the watercolor of it reflecting on the surface, Yennefer decides it a fine time to join the smear of colors.
Taking little notice of whether she’s alone or not, she begins to peel her clothes from her body. There aren’t many layers, especially since the season has been changing, a creeping into a more comforting time of year. Gone are the days of burrowing and gray skies. A simple joy after months of feeling as if the sun had disappeared forever.
She makes her way to the water’s edge and slowly submerges the parts of her body. A testing of the toes first, followed by legs and hips and chest. She skims along the top and creates splashing ripples with her hands. After carving out a wide circle, she turns back to the banks and sees Tissaia sitting quietly with her legs pulled to her chest, a smile playing upon her lips.
“How long have you been there?” Yennefer stops with a smug smile of her own.
“Only a few moments,” Tissaia answers and lets her eyes follow Yennefer’s movement through the water.
There’s not much of her showing, just shoulders and the slight swell of her breasts. Everything else is hidden beneath the river, but Yennefer feels her body beginning to warm despite the coolness of it and against the spark in Tissaia’s eyes.
“Well, I felt as if this meandering about the countries has gotten me worn down, so I thought a much needed dip would calm my sore body,” Yennefer explains.
“Lovely spot to choose as well,” Tissaia nods and looks around. “Not a tree nor rock in sight to fend off anyone’s lecherous eyes.”
“The only wandering looks I need to concern myself with are apparently your own,” Yennefer playfully goads back. “Moreover, I have never been particularly modest when it comes to my body. It came through much pain and anguish, so why hide it to the world?”
“Are we trying to launch thinly veiled references my way?” Tissaia feigns irritation. Her tone remains impish though even as she brings a hand to her chest in mock indignation.
“Two quite good uses for all of that fabric you bury yourself under: for poor girls to grab onto your train and to cover your chaste ideals as well,” Yennefer supplies.
“Oh, you think I the prude?” Tissaia laughs again.
“Prove me wrong,” Yennefer shrugs nonchalantly but it’s evident that the jesting is no longer just so. There’s that inexplicable swelter that comes around whenever they’re together. It bends her words and makes them ragged.
“Do I not when I uncover myself almost nightly to you in our bed?”
Tissaia has brought her hands together, laced the fingers of them tightly until they now turn white in her efforts to remain impassive and disinterested in the amplification of the mood. Yennefer also sees her grasping at restraint by the determined set of her jaw. The smile that was once upon her lips is lost.
“But in how many rivers, my darling Rectoress?”
Yennefer watches her stand, the jut of her jaw hardening as she brings over a toe to help work at her shoes. Eyes never leaving Yennefer, she kicks them away, slides the fabric to the side at each shoulder then until she’s standing bare against the backdrop of the grasslands behind her.
In the encroaching darkness, Yennefer can just make out the curving of her breasts, the nipples tight on the cool breeze. She carves a trail down her body, settling her sight on the shadow between her legs.
She makes her way toward Yennefer, now being enveloped by the river. It’s irrational to be jealous of water and yet Yennefer is. It’s everywhere she wishes to be.
Slowly, she comes to stand on top of Yennefer’s feet that rest on the river’s floor, pressing slickly against her and wrapping her hands around Yennefer’s neck. She gives herself over to both the arms encircling her and the weight of the water.
“Mmm, so it seems your poking was well worth the tease,” Tissaia leans in, nipping at Yennefer’s ear.
Yennefer is at a loss for things to say so she no longer uses her arms to buoy their bodies, instead bringing her hands to behind Tissaia’s knees to lift her legs up and around Yennefer’s back.
They’ve ceased to be new at this, so well versed in one another’s bodies that light could completely disappear and they’d still know each and every contour. What hasn’t occurred is the tiring of it. Yennefer still manages to revel in the push of their chests together or the way that Tissaia never fails to touch her in a way that seems like she knows Yennefer’s soul.
Once Tissaia has locked herself to Yennefer, Yennefer brings a crooked finger under Tissaia’s chin. Droplets fall from the skin and make circles on the surface. Some work a path down Tissaia’s body.
“I am forever yours,” Yennefer says seriously. As if Tissaia could not possibly know it by now.
Tissaia pushes herself into Yennefer, kisses her with the fervor of every year they never got to experience before, to make up for all of the time that has been lost. They finally break apart, sucking in the night air around them.
Tissaia grins against Yennefer’s lips, disentangles her limbs from Yennefer’s body and kicks away with a hooking finger and gleam in her eyes.
Yennefer feels her own lips quirk upward. She follows her ever deeper.
————————-
She meets him on the streets one summer morning and scolds herself for being thick in her thinking that he would only be traversing the roads of Rivia. His chiseled jaw is covered by tanned skin, hair seemingly whiter against the sun’s work on his body.
Roach whinnies nearby and Jaskier remains in deep conversation with a street merchant and her cart.
They stand several feet apart, immobile but staring as bodies weave to and fro between them. Much like the people, a great amount has come to pass amid them. The hours spent sprawled in her tent seem like a fractured lifetime ago, so detached from reality it’s as if it never happened. Yennefer knows better than to assign it to her dreams though.
“Yennefer,” he finally grounds out, a simple greeting for the anniversary of their tryst long ago and the stacking of three hundred plus days since he had shown his face at Sodden, only to disappear with the smoke.
“Geralt,” Yennefer returns. She wonders where the child is. Wonders where her own company has wandered off to.
“It’s been a while,” he smiles and rests his palms on the hilt of his sword at his side. His posture is loose, friendly.
“You know, wars to fight and academies to return to,” Yennefer shrugs.
He opens his mouth and lets it hang for a few moments, seemingly at a loss for her cool behavior. “I had heard you became an ambassador of sorts to the various nations. It seems to have kept you busy,” he tries.
“Ah, yes. A year of my life verbally stroking the cocks of rulers. Very fitting use of my time if I do say so myself,” Yennefer feels a sudden wave of anger.
If he were at a loss before, he must know he has no way out now as he offers up a surprised grunt that almost passes for a laugh. Almost.
“And here I thought you would never be tamed, Yennefer,” he sighs.
She starts forward but halts her steps when she feels Tissaia come up beside her, warily glancing toward the witcher and then turning her attention fully back to Yennefer. As for herself, Yennefer never wavers her gaze from Geralt. Not even when she feels a steadying hand to her arm.
You’re losing your grip. Scale yourself back.
The words shake her from her tunneled vision and she finally turns to look at the woman gazing up into her eyes. They don’t say anything aloud but enough passes between them to speak volumes. Yennefer lets out a shaking breath and tries to ease the tension that’s built up on the street.
As she’s about to speak, Ciri rounds the corner all smiles, but then it fades from her face when she looks across the space to see Yennefer in the middle of the road. The girl comes closer to Geralt, mirroring Tissaia’s own stance by Yennefer. They all glance at one another.
Yennefer’s heart feels heavy suddenly. While her relationship with the man in front of her has a complicated past, she’s never wished ill on him and if he is to be a decent man, he will need all of the well-wishes he can get where the girl is concerned.
With her blonde-white hair and her piercing eyes, Yennefer knows that the road ahead for the two of them is incredibly long and hard. Not one to imagine her own type of peace, the idea holds little meaning at all to the now bound pair in front of her, and the thought of this makes Yennefer feel all the more sad.
With another well placed touch, Tissaia brings Yennefer back to herself once more. She offers a thin smile to her before turning back to the ragtag group in front of them. Jaskier has joined, his kind eyes holding a bit more serious to them than normal. She’s sure their last encounter is not far from his mind.
“Some people are worth controlling your chaos for,” Yennefer finally tells Geralt as she watches Ciri and Jaskier’s shoulders relax marginally.
“Mmm,” Geralt grunts and Yennefer follows his line of sight which is now fixed on Tissaia.
She feels the woman’s back straighten a bit as the two of them size one another up-her past and her present. Yennefer lets a devilish smile curl at her lips. Reaching down, she takes Tissaia’s hand, bids them all farewell, and practically drags Tissaia back to their temporary lodgings.
They barely make it through the door before Yennefer has pushed Tissaia up the wood of it, shoving frantically at her skirts. There is an exasperating amount of fabric to wade through before she’s got her hand where it needs to be. When it connects, she isn’t gentle.
She works to mark, to claim. Tissaia’s skin becomes hers, forever branded with the half moon pressings of her fingernails that break skin and threaten blood. They’re so inherently entwined by this point in their lives that Yennefer knows that Tissaia understands what she’s doing: fucking Geralt out of her and Tissaia into her.
The woman, supposedly carved from frost and ice, lets herself get wrecked against a cottage door and a painful memory. She doesn’t have to pry or worm her way into Yennefer’s mind to know why she will bear the impending scars for the rest of her life. Maybe it’s because of this that she wails even louder as Yennefer leans against her just as spent.
They lay together afterward and Yennefer tries not to lose herself in the threading of Tissaia’s hands in her hair. She can feel the press of her concern, of wanting to help Yennefer work through what just happened but Yennefer cannot address it head on. It’s better to speak in riddles.
“I know it hurts to lose someone you care for,” Tissaia surprises Yennefer by saying and maybe she has heard her after all. It’s a good enough cover for the root of this.
Yennefer, inadvertently, skims along Tissaia’s mind and picks up a name too. She raises her head from Tissaia’s chest and looks in her eyes. “Fringilla.”
“I never wanted her to stray so far,” she shakes her head and Yennefer tries not to show the pinching of jealousy in her gut. Of course, Tissaia sees it anyway. “Not even a flicker of being the same as you.”
Yennefer flops down again, head back to the coziness of where it started. She turns slightly to place a quick bite against the exposed skin of Tissaia’s upper chest and both laugh as Tissaia softly shoves Yennefer away.
“You’d better say that,” Yennefer growls a little and shoots her a look.
“And what of you? Should I not be beside myself and covetous of the time you spent in one another’s arms?” Tissaia asks, referring to Geralt. “I’m not so unwise as to think I’ve ever been the only one.”
“Not by a long shot,” Yennefer admits sheepishly.
“Okay, enough,” Tissaia warns. “The difference is there has always been a sky in my life. You, however, have given me the stars.”
It’s the most romantic thing Yennefer’s quite possibly ever heard and her heart swells with affection. She kisses her quickly but soundly and traces the curve of her face after.
This woman, this confounding woman who has grown beyond all reason inside of Yennefer. They make no sense, on paper or off, and yet here they lie still tethered together after lifetimes of years.
“I don’t know how to be at peace,” Yennefer admits, the fear of it finally breaking into the open air. The countrysides, the weight of Tissaia’s hand in her own—each more than a slice of happiness and yet she’s being gnawed apart by the worry of discontent.
“I know,” Tissaia whispers. Because she does.
Silence takes them for a little while until Yennefer decides to rise, pulling herself up from the ground and then Tissaia too. She holds her in her arms, traces her own hands down until they reach hers. Yennefer lets herself toy with the finger between Tissaia’s middle and pinkie. How beautiful it would look wrapped in gold.
“Perhaps this is the last thing I need to learn if I’m to attain this, what’s it called? Oh, happiness,” Yennefer tries. “But I’ll need a teacher.”
“Ahh,” Tissaia says knowingly and threads their fingers together, wrapping the other around Yennefer’s waist. Their feet shuffle to inaudible music, a tune played simply in their heads. “Well, I’ve got a while.”
“Oh yeah?” Yennefer backs away and unwinds a rogue strand of paling hair. Tissaia bats her hand away. Yennefer laughs and leans in. “Me too.” She wraps them together ever tighter.
In the end, it’s still a good way to be living. The chaos only flickers instead of rages. With Tissaia by her side though, Yennefer can finally stop wanting everything. That’s because she already has it.