Chapter Text
“If you will not do it for the brotherhood then do it for me. Please.”
The sheer satisfaction that these words invoke propels a thrill that courses like lightening through Yennefer’s veins, one so powerful she has to employ all her resolve to maintain her cool countenance and avoid giggling madly at the ridiculous word that has just left the rectoress’ mouth. A smug smirk, however, escapes her control and she chances a glance at the slightly pinched pink lips of the proud woman before her, before sealing her victory with a last jab.
“Have you ever used that word before?”
She feels herself tremble with this newfound power and it is intoxicating. Yennefer is so drunk on this feeling that she momentarily forgets that Tissaia has not moved from her place in front of her and has yet to say something.
“There are many things I have not said as much as I ought to. But that is neither here nor there. Now tell me, will you join us?” Tissaia answered with a subdued tone, the usual challenge missing from her words. She kept her eyes fixed to the younger mage’s. Her gaze honest, eyes faintly glistening in the torchlit corridor, although if those were tears swimming in their surface or simply a trick of the light, Yennefer could not tell.
“Very well. After all, it seems you’ll need me to.” She tries to savor this as much as she can, but the taste of her triumph has already dimmed somewhat. As fleeting as any moment of happiness in her sorrowful existence. So be it.
“We leave at first light. Find Triss, she will show you to your lodgings.” The woman says before turning and disappearing through the hallway so quickly Yennefer wonders if she was ever there at all.
Right. Triss.
She finds the younger sorceress rather easily. Unlike Yennefer, Triss is a kind and sociable soul and to no-one’s surprise she is found not far from the Great Hall, seemingly enraptured in animated conversation with several other mages including Sabrina, who appears to be entranced by whatever the redhead is saying.
As Yennefer approaches the small congregation the voices quieten and they turn to look at her, disdain, jealousy, and contempt written across their faces. Triss, however, seems simultaneously happy and sad to see her, almost as if apologizing for the others’ behavior. They hadn’t talked in years, but Yennefer is glad for the girl’s presence and makes a mental note to be kinder to her, if only throughout this adventure Tissaia had roped her into.
Their discussion picks up again after a few beats. Yennefer pays no heed to what is being said, her mind still reeling from her brief exchange with the rectoress. The whole thing seems so unnatural she truly wonders if she had imagined it. The way the older woman’s face had almost crumbled when she alluded to what Yennefer had said in Rinde, before almost instantly resetting to her neutral façade. The perplexing shine in her eyes. Please. That word. That damned word, whispered with an intensity of emotion Yennefer thought the cold woman incapable of. Giving her a sense of vulnerability Yennefer had never attributed to the older sorceress.
She stops her reverie when she feels Triss’ hand on her upper arm, realizing now that the mage had probably been trying to get her attention for several moments before resorting to this act. The others were already gone, Yennefer notices in passing. Ignoring this lapse, Triss links their arms and all but drags her along the dim corridors as they make their way to their rooms for the night, her idle chatter reverberating in the empty halls.
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It is late and she is tired from the day’s emotional strain, but sleep does not come easily. Yennefer tosses and turns but every ounce of effort she puts into quietening her mind seems to have the opposite effect. Whenever she closes her eyelids, she finds blue-green eyes staring endlessly back at her. Her thoughts are assaulted with the image of pink lips surrounded by high collars of red silk. Although she is convinced her barren room smells of nothing in particular, the black-haired woman could swear she keeps catching whiffs of fresh parchment and peonies hanging in the air.
She is about to curse it all and open a portal directly to the kitchens and drown herself in whatever alcohol she can find there when she feels it. Faint and fuzzy but it is there. Chaos. Tingling and calling to her own. Powerful too. This is no ordinary spell. As a moth drawn to a flame Yennefer wastes no time getting up, pausing only to tie a robe around her figure before venturing out into the old magical fortress, searching for the source of this magical disturbance.
After wandering the hallways in circles for a few minutes she manages to narrow its location, Tor Lara. As she makes her way to the infamous tower she briefly wonders if the pulsing chaos could be Istredd’s doing before shaking her head at the thought. That would be ridiculous, he had left together with Yennefer and the other adepts decades ago and would have no business slithering back to his beloved elven ruin with the world now open to him. Besides, she already had a fair inkling as to who was responsible for the night’s events.
She finds herself in a part of the structure she had never been to. Deep underground, deeper even than Anica’s resting place, she is sure. The walls no longer carry the well-known architecture that decorates the rest of the construction, it is now only robust plain stone, carved only enough to make a clear pathway surrounded in darkness. She stops here, considering her next course of action. The atmosphere pulses around her and Yennefer knows she is in the right place, that whatever it is she is looking for will be found at the end of this trail. Steeling her resolve, she summons a small round light and settles it in the palm of her hand, using her long fingers as a cage to keep it from slipping away.
She starts walking.
Minutes go by and she seems no closer to her goal. Completely blind save for the faint light she carries and with no sound other than her own heavy breathing she starts to wonder if this was a mistake. The path grows ever narrower and she is soon obliged to turn her body sideways to keep advancing. Part of her urges her to turn back, to return to her warm bed, slide under her soft covers and forget this whole endeavor, but she will be damned if she gives up after this lengthy chase. She needs to see this through.
Finally, Yennefer starts to hear it. A clear voice that pierces the stagnant night air with intent. Well enunciated vowels in a tongue forgotten by many but familiar to the black-haired woman. She picks up her pace, impatient and incredibly curious to have her answer. She is rewarded with a new light source revealing itself in the distance as the tunnel ends and she draws nearer a larger room still encased in stone.
There, standing straight with her back turned to Yennefer, looking over a wall adorned with strange markings whilst uttering the last words of a complex incantation and a transparent cloak of shimmering chaos surrounding her small frame, is Tissaia de Vries.