Work Text:
Yennefer first meets the goddess of spring in the middle of a meadow.
She doesn’t leave the underworld often. The other gods annoy her, with their petty squabbles and childish disputes, and she has plenty to occupy herself with in the underworld anyway. But something draws her to the surface, to a stray meadow somewhere on the Continent, where a lone figure stands, surrounded by colourful stalks of flowers, swaying in a gentle breeze.
The figure reaches out a hand. The hand glows, warm and golden, and the figure sweeps out their arm, their gown billowing out around them as they turn, bathing the meadow in a soft golden light, and the flowers seem to perk up, vibrant colour seeping into their petals.
All at once, Yennefer knows who she’s looking at. The figure turns, and Yennefer meets warm brown eyes, crinkling gently at the corners as lovely lips tilt up in a sweet smile.
Triss, the goddess of spring, of new life and creation, of the flowers that bloom across the earth and chase away the winter chill.
Yennefer stays still, not dropping her gaze, and Triss swirls her hand gracefully. Around Yennefer, where the plants have wilted and died in her presence, in the presence of the goddess of the underworld, life and colour seep back into the previously dead plants, springing back to life and arching towards her, sunflowers beaming brightly, bluebells swinging their heads, rosebuds a vibrant bloom, and Yennefer, unable to stop herself, reaches out, marvelling at how the flowers remain lively and colourful even beneath her deathly touch.
A rustle of skirts draws her attention back, and Yennefer looks up to see Triss smiling at her, hands still glowing gold. Something warm tugs at her heart, tugs her towards this bright, lovely presence, and Yennefer unwittingly takes a step forward before she remembers herself, remembers the death and destruction at her fingertips, the darkness that roils in her heart, and she shrouds herself in shadows, transporting herself back to the underworld.
Triss is lovely, and something in Yennefer yearns. But Yennefer is the goddess of the underworld, the goddess of death, and she will not taint the soft, golden glow of the goddess of spring,
And yet.
She shouldn’t follow the tug in her heart, she knows. She shouldn’t. But the underworld is painfully lonely, and Yennefer finds herself seeking Triss out, watching her from a distance as she spreads life across land left barren by ice and snow, colourful flowers replacing the endless white canvas of winter. Triss notices her each time, turning to catch her eyes as she splays her fingers out, pulling new life from the earth, and Yennefer is rooted in place by those deep brown eyes, unable to run, unable to do anything but watch as Triss smiles at her, sweet and gentle.
Soon, she becomes a constant companion. After a few visits, Triss starts murmuring to herself, talking about her day, about the joy of mortals as they glimpse the approach of spring, about her fellow gods, high up in the gleaming city of Olympus, about her dearest friend, Renfri, the goddess of war. And Yennefer listens, lets her soothing voice drift over her, and lets herself forget, for a few moments, about the death that resides in her realm.
Triss is -
“Yennefer.” Triss says her name like no one else does, like it isn’t a curse, like the goddess of the underworld isn’t someone to be reviled, to be hated, like her name is something - something precious. “How have you been?”
It’s the first time Triss has addressed her directly, and Yennefer ponders her answer. She contemplates if she should stay silent, but Triss watches her patiently, her gaze gentle in a way no one has ever directed at Yennefer before, and that perpetual darkness residing within Yennefer melts away, just a little.
“Same as usual,” she murmurs, and Triss’ smile glows brighter than the light enveloping her hands.
“As usual?” Triss’ tone takes on a teasing edge as she steps closer to Yennefer, and though she’s still a small distance away, Yennefer feels so wondrously warm. “I don’t know what your usual is. I think you might have to tell me.”
And so she does. Yennefer tells her about the underworld, the overwhelming darkness of it. She tells her about the souls in Elysium, in the Fields of Asphodel, in Tartarus. She tells her about the river Styx, about how souls are judged, about the stray souls that come to her throne room, sometimes, and beg for their loved ones back, and Triss listens, her smile never wavering as she inches closer, and closer.
They start doing this more often. Talking, chatting, in the middle of a field, a meadow, on the top of hills and next to rivers, as Triss works her way through the land and Yennefer lets go of her duties for a few quiet moments to bask in the joyous radiance of spring.
The first time Triss laughs, eyes bright and cheeks flushed underneath her freckles, Yennefer feels her immortal heart trip and stutter, and she itches to reach out, to hold Triss’ hands in hers.
The first time Yennefer laughs, Triss lights up, curls bouncing, and they grin helplessly at each other, gravitating towards each other slowly, gradually, until their bodies are pressed close together in an intimate embrace.
Triss is nothing like anyone Yennefer has ever met, so unlike the souls in the underworld, the Furies that keep her company, the judges that send each soul to where they will rest for eternity. Triss is bright, and warm, and lovely, radiating life even when she isn’t using her powers. She’s kind, cradling animals with gentle hands as she coaxes them out from hibernation, stroking her fingers over the fur of a fox, a baby bear, a young wolf, running her hands over young children’s hair as she guides them back towards their parents, holding Yennefer in the circle of her arms.
She’s vibrant, glowing and radiant when she brings life, plants and flowers arching towards her as she grows them from the ground, bringing life to previously frozen fields.
Triss is so unlike the darkness of the underworld, so unlike the death that pervades every part of it, and it’s refreshing, to have someone other than the underworld’s residents as company, to have someone who’s so bright and compassionate and lively by her side, to be able to step away from how utterly dreary the underworld is, and bask in the sunshine of the lovely goddess of spring, the only person who’s willing to accept Yennefer as she is.
With every smile that Triss gives her, a little more light enters Yennefer’s world, and the underworld seems a little less bleak each time she returns.
Yennefer doesn’t trust easily. She is rarely honest with anyone else, but Triss pulls her walls down, little by little, and Yennefer finds herself confessing to the desolate loneliness of the underworld, the darkness that sometimes becomes too oppressive, the weight of the numerous souls that haunt her realm, and Triss curls an arm around her, a reminder that she’s not alone, not anymore.
In return, Triss spills her own heart out, telling Yennefer about the weight of her mother’s expectations, the pressure to marry Stregobor, who pursues her relentlessly, sneaking into her home, violating her personal space without consent - and doesn’t that cause fury to stir in Yennefer’s chest, the thought of Stregobor even getting close to Triss, who’s kind and bright and deserves so much better than Stregobor’s vile cruelty.
“He can’t take you against your will,” Yennefer snarls, and Triss’ face crinkles in a rare frown.
“He’s the king of the gods,” Triss replies softly, something painfully resigned in her tone, and Yennefer clenches her fist, glaring hopelessly at the sky. “I’m only the goddess of spring, not even one of the Olympian gods. I stand no chance against him. The only reason he hasn’t taken me yet is because of Renfri.”
“But he can’t…” Yennefer has never felt so helpless in her immortal life. She’s powerful, but she holds no sway amongst the Olympian gods, and she’s suddenly unbearably grateful for Renfri, for the goddess of war who must care enough for Triss to stand up to the king of the gods. Yennefer hasn’t met Renfri - Triss’ best friend, whose hands, they say, are stained crimson with the bloodshed from war - but if she’s willing to stand up against Stregobor, that vile creature masquerading as a god, Yennefer thinks that perhaps such rumours are unfounded, as unfounded as the ones about Yennefer.
“He can.” Triss trails a hand over the grass next to her, mouth tilted downwards. “One day, he’ll trample over Renfri, and I’ll…”
“I won’t let him,” Yennefer vows, and Triss smiles at her, tremulous and weak. “That bastard will have to get through me. And Renfri, as well.”
“Well,” Triss chuckles, light returning to her face. “Both of you are forces to be reckoned with, I know. I trust both of you.”
Something warm swells within Yennefer - Triss trusts her, and it’s a heady feeling, to be trusted so implicitly, to have Triss lean into her embrace without a hint of fear or apprehension, to have Triss smile at her like she’s the centre of the world, and all at once, Yennefer wants to bare herself to Triss, to show Triss all of who she is, death and darkness and all that comes with being the goddess of the underworld.
It takes her some time, uncertain about how Triss might react to her realm. But she wants Triss to see, wants to show Triss how much Yennefer trusts her, so she tidies up her palace, prepares a room for Triss, and braces herself.
They’re wandering through a forest, Triss brushing her fingers against trees and bushes, when Yennefer gathers the courage to ask.
“Do you... “ Yennefer hesitates, her words catching in her throat. She wants to - she wants to ask, but how can she ask Triss, so bright and lively, to come to the underworld, where there’s nothing but death, nothing but darkness?
Triss takes her hands in her own, and the contact burns, thrumming through Yennefer’s veins. “Yes, Yenna?”
“I…” Yennefer swallows, gathers her courage. “Do you want to - to come to the underworld? With me?”
There’s a pause, and Yennefer is ready to retract her question, ready to play it off, but Triss beams, lighting up her whole face as she squeezes Yennefer’s hands.
“Yes,” she breathes out, and Yennefer can’t help but smile back, so utterly drawn to Triss, drawn into her orbit, towards her warm, lively core.
“Do you trust me?” Yennefer asks, stepping closer Triss, voice barely a whisper, and Triss smiles at her, curls swaying in the wind as she leans forward, brushing her lips against Yennefer’s cheek.
“Always,” Triss murmurs back, her breath warm against Yennefer’s face, and Yennefer grasps her hand, gathers the shadows around her, and takes them to the underworld.
They step out of the shadows in front of Yennefer’s palace, and Yennefer braces herself for disappointment as Triss takes in just how dull the underworld is. But there’s no disappointment on Triss’ face, only an awed wonder as she gazes at the majestic castle, at the glittering gems that adorn its sides, and when she turns to look over the cavernous darkness of the rest of Yennefer’s realm, her mouth falls open, a small gasp escaping her lips - but there’s no disappointment like Yennefer had expected, none of the fear that the other gods had felt whenever they stepped foot into the underworld.
“Wow,” Triss breathes, awed eyes turning back to Yennefer, whose breath catches in her throat when Triss looks at her with such wonder. “Your realm - it’s beautiful.”
“It’s…” Yennefer wants to deny it, wants to point out how dark, how dreary it is, but the wonder in Triss’ eyes stops her. “Let me show you.”
Their fingers are still tangled together, and Yennefer gives Triss a gentle tug, pulling her away from the castle and towards the idyllic lands of Elysium. Triss spins around with the joyous souls residing there, and Yennefer watches her fondly until she returns, happy and breathless from how a few children had tugged her to a dance.
“Show me more,” Triss whispers, and Yennefer does.
Yennefer guides Triss through her realm, past the judges of the underworld, steering her away from Tartarus, taking her for a walk along the Styx until they reach the Fields of Asphodel, where they gaze out at the aimless souls. She takes Triss to the corners of her realm, to caves laden with glittering gems, to the Acheron and the Lethe and the Phlegethon, but when she tries to lead Triss away from the edges of the underworld, where the land is desolate and barren, Triss stops her.
“Yenna,” Triss breathes out, gaze sad as she looks over the empty land, and Yennefer lowers her head.
“There’s nothing here,” she says softly, heart twisting. This is the realm of the dead, after all. “Nothing grows.”
Triss’ eyes glint. “Oh?” She twists her hands, which glow a familiar gold, and Yennefer feels her jaw go slack when a sunflower sprouts from the ground, its yellow petals stark against the dark backdrop of the underworld.
“You…”
“Looks like the underworld does allow for life to grow,” Triss comments, kneeling down to brush her fingers over the sunflower before standing back up and smiling joyously. “Would you… would you like to see more?”
Yennefer has no words, struck by the image of a small yellow sunflower blooming bright and stubborn in her realm, so she nods, short and jerky, and Triss spins around in a circle, her movements reminiscent of the time they’d first met, golden light spilling from her hands.
From the barren ground of the underworld, littered with skulls and crushed bones, plants bloom, pushing through the ground that Yennefer had never thought would bring life. An apple tree grows from the ground, vines winding up its trunk, a rose bush sprouting next to it. A patch of lavender grows not far from Yennefer’s feet, their soothing fragrance floating over to her nose, and something rustles the back of her dress. She turns around to see that the sunflowers have multiplied in number, a spot of bright yellow surrounded by a sea of pinks and purples and blues, sprawling across the previously desolate land.
In the middle of it all stands Triss, spreading her light, her warmth, across the dreary darkness of the underworld, brightening it up in a way it’s never been before, stealing Yennefer’s breath with the sheer beauty, the unbridled life of it all.
Once upon a time, Yennefer had wanted the sky.
She’d reached for it, but Stregobor had taken it from her with greedy hands and a cruel grin, and she’d thought -
She would never see anything but darkness again.
But Triss is here, in Yennefer’s realm, in the deep darkness of the underworld, a skip in her step as flowers bloom in her wake, and Yennefer can’t tear her gaze from that bright spot in the middle of all the darkness in her realm, the bursts of life in the middle of the land of death.
She takes a careful step, cautiously avoiding the patch of sunflowers, not wanting to trample them, and weaves her way through the flowers and trees and plants until she’s next to Triss, whose warmth keeps drawing her in. When Triss beams at her, dark skin lit up by the golden glow of her hands, Yennefer winds her arms around Triss’ waist and hooks her chin over her shoulder, watching as plants grow and spread colour across her realm, chasing away the death and darkness the same way they chase away winter and herald the arrival of spring.
There’s life in Yennefer’s realm now, and for the first time, the underworld looks beautiful, bright colours spilling across the land in a sea of new life.
Stregobor can have the sky, Yennefer thinks as Triss twists around in her embrace, leaning in and slotting their lips together. With Triss here, their bodies twined together, Yennefer’s realm is so much more than a desolate spread of darkness, and well, Yennefer doesn’t need the sky anyway, not when Triss is wrapped in her arms, sighing softly into her mouth, hands glowing gold and radiant with life.
Yennefer is spending a quiet day with Triss in the underworld when she first meets the goddess of war.
“Come on,” Triss murmurs, tugging at Yennefer to sit down and guiding Yennefer’s head onto her lap. Unused to such easy affection, Yennefer tenses up, but Triss strokes gentle fingers through her hair, the steady motions slowly pulling the tension from Yennefer’s limbs until she’s lax against Triss, who begins to hum as she plucks a few daisies from the grass and starts weaving them together.
Yennefer’s eyes flutter shut as Triss continues weaving the flowers together, smiling when she feels something soft and prickly settle on her head. Blinking her eyes open, she reaches up and touches the flower crown that Triss has settled on her head, and for a moment, she freezes in fear of killing the daisies, but they remain lively and vibrant under her hands.
“You like it?” Triss’ voice is gentle, barely a whisper as she tucks a strand of hair behind Yennefer’s ear, the gesture easy and affectionate.
“It’s lovely,” Yennefer breathes out, heart full that Triss has done this for her, letting her, the goddess of the underworld, so dangerously close, weaving a flower crown for her, and Triss gazes down at her, eyes warm and impossibly fond.
The moment is charged with something, intimate in a way Yennefer has only ever experienced with Triss, which is why she misses the telltale tingle at the back of her mind that tells her that someone has breached her realm. She tangles her fingers with Triss’, who resumes humming, her other hand stroking through Yennefer’s hair, and Yennefer drifts, and drifts, until -
“Triss, what are you doing?” A rough voice barks, and Yennefer springs to her feet, the ground rumbling under her when she locks eyes with a stranger, whose eyes burn fierce and wild. Yennefer’s attention is captured by the flecks of fiery red within them, by the chaotic energy that radiates from those eyes.
There’s only one person who could possibly burn with such wild, untamed strength.
“Renfri?” Triss exclaims, still seated on the grass as she blinks at the goddess of war. “You - what are you doing here?”
“I thought…” Renfri’s narrowed gaze flicks from Yennefer to land on Triss, brows furrowing in confusion. “You disappeared, and Stregobor has been raging about you two, so I -”
Yennefer has to bite back a snarl at the mention of Stregobor, and Triss pushes herself to her feet, heading over to Renfri and placing a soothing hand on her arm.
“I’m fine, Ren,” she reassures, and Renfri’s shoulders slump down slightly, her fist loosening from where it had been clutched tightly around a dagger. “You didn’t have to worry about me.”
“I know I don’t.” Renfri grips Triss’ hands like she doesn’t want to let go before pulling her into a crushing hug. “I just…”
“I know,” Triss murmurs, falling silent as they embrace. Over Triss’ shoulder, Yennefer meets Renfri’s fiery eyes, and they stare at each other. Some kind of understanding passes between them. Yennefer, the goddess of the underworld; Renfri, the goddess of war. Death and destruction pervade their lives, the darkness of death hovering at Yennefer’s fingertips and the blood of war staining Renfri’s hands - and yet, Triss, the bright, lovely goddess of spring, had chosen them; Triss, whose golden heart is always, always kind, whose hands are gentle and whose smiles are soft - she had chosen them, the goddess of the underworld and the goddess of war.
Renfri nods at Yennefer, who dips her head back, feeling the way the flower crown slides slightly to the side, and when Renfri’s gaze catches on the flowers in Yennefer’s hair, surprise, then fondness, flashes through her eyes as she gives Yennefer a near-imperceptible smile, clutching Triss tighter.
“Don’t disappear on me like that next time,” Renfri chides when they break apart, and Triss winks mischievously at her as she leads her over to Yennefer.
“Alright, alright,” Triss sighs, plopping down on the grass once more and pulling Renfri down with her. She smiles at Yennefer, who’s still settled in a fighting stance, and waves at her to join them. “Well, now that you’re both here, let me introduce you.”
“Renfri, I know,” Yennefer says hesitantly as she gingerly sits down next to Triss, unsure of her place now that Renfri is by Triss’ side. Triss has no such reservations, easily winding one arm around Yennefer’s waist as she rests her head on Renfri’s shoulder. “Triss has told me about you.”
Renfri studies her for a moment. “All good things, I hope.”
“All good things,” Yennefer confirms, recalling the gentle way Triss talks about Renfri, about her courage and bravery and fiery strength, about her quiet kindness hidden underneath the surface, and a brief smile flashes over Renfri’s face.
“Well, Yennefer,” Renfri drawls, one hand tangling with Triss’. Yennefer braces herself for wariness when Renfri looks at her, or perhaps for protectiveness over Triss, but there’s only a cautious sort of intrigue in her fiery eyes, and Yennefer relaxes. Perhaps she could learn to enjoy Renfri’s company, despite how their meeting had been less than desirable. “You’ve heard about me, but I don’t know much about you.” Save for the rumours that the other gods whisper behind your back, goes unsaid. “So tell me a little about you.”
“First thing about me: welcome to my realm,” Yennefer comments dryly, gesturing around her, gesturing at how the usual darkness is obscured by the life Triss has brought. “This is the underworld.”
Triss lets out a soft huff of a laugh, and an amused smile tugs at Renfri’s lips, something like approval in her eyes.
“Not quite what I expected,” Renfri muses, jerking her chin at the flowers blooming bright and vibrant around them.
“You like it, Ren?” Triss asks, tilting her head back to meet Renfri’s eyes.
At this, Renfri smiles. “I do. Your realm… it’s lovely, Yennefer.”
“All thanks to Triss,” Yennefer replies softly, reaching up unconsciously to touch the flower crown nestled in her hair.
They’re quiet for a few moments, gazing out at the meadow Triss has created, Renfri’s free hand twisting into the blades of grass next to her, and though Renfri is a stranger, still, Yennefer tries to relax in her company.
Triss trusts her. Renfri is Triss’ best friend, so Yennefer forces the tension to leak from her shoulders, wills her realm to accept Renfri the way it had accepted Triss, and later, when Yennefer guides them back to her palace, she pulls Renfri aside to walk around the palace as Triss burrows herself into her room.
“You came to rescue her from me, didn’t you.” It’s not a question, and Renfri meets her eyes unflinchingly.
“Yes. I was worried for her.”
Yennefer understands. She knows the reputation she has amongst the other gods - the goddess of the underworld, terrifying and deadly, merciless and cruel, whose realm plunges you into darkness and engulfs you in death. She can’t blame Renfri for being worried for Triss. But there’s no judgement in Renfri’s eyes, none of the wariness Yennefer would have expected considering her reputation.
“She’s safe with you?” Renfri asks, looking at her steadily, and Yennefer dips her head.
“She is,” she confirms. Triss will always be safe with her - not that Triss can’t take care of herself, of course, but Yennefer knows her own reputation. She might be the goddess of the underworld, the polar opposite of who Triss is, but she would never, never harm Triss.
Renfri nods. “I didn’t think she would become friends with you,” she muses as Yennefer falls into step with her. “But then again, she’s friends with me.”
“I saw her one day.” Yennefer recalls that first day, that glowing golden figure in the middle of a meadow, gown billowing out around her in a graceful arc. “We kept meeting, and she…”
“She doesn’t judge.” There’s understanding in Renfri’s voice, and Yennefer thinks about the goddess of war, who is rumoured to have killed millions, who is said to have hands stained crimson with blood. She thinks about Stregobor, raging about the Black Sun, desperate to destroy Renfri, telling the gods that the goddess of war is tainted, corrupted, that she needs to be eliminated, and Yennefer’s heart pangs in sympathy as she glances sideways towards Renfri, solemn in understanding.
Yennefer usually isn’t so honest with people she has just met. But Triss trusts Renfri, and Yennefer trusts Triss - and there’s something about Renfri, something about the way both of them are hated and feared by the rest of their kind, something about the way they share an understanding of what it feels like to be ostracised, that makes Yennefer let her guard down.
“I’m surprised that she even allowed me to come close,” Yennefer confesses, surprised at how easily the words spill from her lips. “You know what they say about me.”
“And you know what they say about me,” Renfri returns, mouth twisting in a brief frown. “Triss… she sees past that.”
“She’s the only person to see past all that,” Yennefer agrees, thinking of how readily accepting Triss is, how easily she had let Yennefer in, the lack of fear when she reaches out to pull Yennefer into her arms. “I never thought…”
“Me neither,” Renfri murmurs, and falls silent, their footsteps echoing in the grand hallways of Yennefer’s palace. There’s an understanding between them, now, and there’s a tug in Yennefer’s heart, a tug that seems so very similar to her tug towards Triss. She glances at Renfri, at her messy brown hair, the ends haphazardly cut, at her armour and the numerous weapons adorning her body, and when Renfri looks back, Yennefer gives her a smile, slow and tentative, holding that thread of common understanding between them.
Renfri smiles back, and Yennefer steers them back towards their rooms, hesitating outside Triss’ door. She’s been sleeping in the same bed as Triss since they arrived in the underworld, and she glances at Renfri, unsure of her reaction, only to find Renfri looking back at her with a similar uncertainty. Triss means so much to both of them, and Yennefer doesn’t want to take Renfri’s place in Triss’ life - Renfri has known her longer, after all.
“Oh, come in, both of you,” Triss calls from within, fond and exasperated. “Don’t linger outside.”
Renfri huffs a laugh and pushes into the room, where Triss is lounging on the bed, looking delightfully soft and rumpled, so at home in the underworld.
“The bed is big enough for three of us.” Triss beckons them over, and Yennefer hesitantly curls up in her usual place by Triss’ side, while Renfri takes slow steps towards the bed, climbing in at Triss’ encouraging eyes and pressing up against Triss.
It doesn’t take long before Yennefer become accustomed to Renfri’s presence, before her eyes flutter shut to the steady beat of Triss’ heart and the gentle huff of Renfri’s breath, and she succumbs to the realm of sleep, warm and snug, curled around Triss with Renfri’s arm slung over them both.
The next day, Yennefer shows Renfri around the underworld - or, she intends to show Renfri around the underworld, but Triss, bubbling with excitement, grabs Yennefer’s hand in one of her hands and Renfri’s hand in the other, and drags them from the palace to Elysium, to the Fields of Asphodel, then to the sprawling field of colour that she’d grown.
It’s easy, and peaceful. Conversation flows naturally between them, and Yennefer finds herself taking a liking to Renfri, to her quick wit and her fierce eyes and her sharp, fleeting grins, to the way she twirls her daggers in her hands, and to the way she smooths her callused hands over Triss’ hair with a gentleness that Yennefer hadn’t thought that the goddess of war was capable of - but then again, who would have expected to see the goddess of spring relaxing in the company of the goddess of the underworld and the goddess of war?
There’s something in the way Renfri burns bright and fierce that draws Yennefer to her, a familiar tug in her chest. Where Triss brings light and life to the underworld, Renfri brings something wild, something free and spirited, bringing yet more colour to Yennefer’s dark realm. She’s nothing like what the other gods say she is - dangerous, yes, but not cruelly bloodthirsty, not needlessly violent, but surprisingly compassionate, a blend of fierce and gentle.
Renfri touches Triss with endless tenderness, and the longer she spends time with Yennefer, the softer her touches become, and she reaches out easily, curling one arm around Yennefer’s waist and bringing her other hand to cup Triss’ cheek. When the children of Elysium race to her with wide grins, she lets them clamber all over her and cling to her arms, lets them clamour over her shiny blades and her intricate armour, lets them challenge her to mock fights which she pretends to lose.
Though she bares her teeth in a savage grin at those who’d committed atrocities terrible enough to land them in Tartarus, Renfri is just as gentle as Triss, in her own way, and Yennefer gravitates towards her the same way she’d gravitated towards Triss, unable to stop herself from smiling fondly as she watches Renfri teach those ghostly children how to wield a dagger.
She hadn’t expected Renfri to join her and Triss in the underworld, but now, with Renfri and Triss, her realm has never felt more complete.
They spend their days in the underworld, and to Yennefer’s surprise, neither Triss nor Renfri try to leave.
“I’ve done my job,” Triss tells her, leaning into her embrace. “There’s no harm in staying here.”
“There are no wars,” Renfri mutters, her head on Yennefer’s lap as she plays with a peony she’d plucked. “The humans can sort themselves out for a while. It’s - nice here.”
And so they stay. It’s a quiet life, and Yennefer still has to go on with her duties, but with Triss and Renfri by her side, everything seems easier, less like a burden and more like something she could come to enjoy. They spend a lot of time in the field that Triss had grown - their field, now - talking about everything and nothing, days floating by with warm embraces and soft words. They sometimes spend lazy days in Elysium, chatting with the souls that have earned the right to stay there for eternity, and Yennefer and Renfri watch as Triss procures a small tulip from the ground, handing it off to a wide-eyed child who jumps into her arms in eager thanks.
One day, Yennefer asks Triss to teach her how to make a flower crown. Triss pauses, and glances over to Renfri, who pipes up, hesitant.
“Triss showed me, some time ago.” She glances at Yennefer, tentative and unsure. “I can show you, if you want.”
“Of course,” Yennefer answers, and the uncertainty in Renfri’s eyes melts away as she starts murmuring low instructions to Yennefer, plucking flowers from the ground. Triss is beaming at both of them, wide and bright, as she watches Renfri guide Yenenfer when her hands fumble clumsily on the delicate stems.
Renfri’s hands are calloused and warm as she corrects the position of Yennefer’s fingers, adjusting them so that they don’t crush the fragile petals. Renfri’s touch is gentle even though Yennefer feels the raw strength that thrums underneath her hands, her fiery eyes attentive as she coaches Yennefer patiently, and Yennefer gazes at Renfri for a few moments, basking in her warmth as she leans close.
“There,” Renfri proclaims when Yennefer finishes her flower crown. It’s crooked and bent, but Yennefer finds that it doesn’t matter, not when she’s managed, for the first time, to create something with her hands, to not bring death to everything she touches, and she turns the flower crown in her hands in awe, in disbelief that she made that.
“Thank you,” Yennefer breathes out, gaze darting to Triss, who’s still smiling warmly at her, before locking eyes with Renfri, whose lips tilt up slightly, and it feels natural to reach out, to settle the flower crown on Renfri’s head.
Renfri stares at her with wide eyes, mouth parting slightly - Yennefer’s heart does that tug again at the sight, at the lopsided flower crown sitting atop Renfri’s messy hair, at how the flowers soften the visage of the goddess of war, and Yennefer finds herself stepping closer, close enough for the sweet scent of the flowers to reach her nose, close enough for Renfri’s hair to tickle her cheeks, close enough to brush her lips against Renfri’s. An arm winds around them both, and Yennefer pulls away from Renfri to see Triss pressing close to both of them, face alight with an impossibly wide smile, one that Renfri captures in a soft, sweet kiss.
Yennefer watches them kiss, heart bursting with warmth and something more, something that she never thought she would get to feel, something that she wants to hold onto forever, a feeling that she falls deeper into when Renfri breaks away from Triss to cup Yennefer’s cheek with one hand, her flower crown tilted to one side from how Triss had buried her hands into her hair when they’d kissed.
With Renfri, with Triss, the underworld has never been so bright, and Yennefer has never felt so warm. She sinks into Triss’ arms, turns her face to press a kiss into Renfri’s hand, and resolves to never let go.
One day, they’re in the middle of watching Triss sway and dance through their field when Renfri’s face suddenly falls.
“What’s wrong?” Yennefer asks, reaching out instinctively to smooth a hand over Renfri’s furrowed brows, to soothe her worries, and Triss stops dancing as she turns back towards them, face twisting with concern.
“I… Stregobor has called us for a meeting,” Renfri sneers, hatred flaring at the mention of the king of the gods, and Triss stiffens, the flowers around her becoming slightly dull, the underworld losing a little of its recent light. “I don’t know what he wants, but…”
She trails off, eyes flickering towards Triss, and Yennefer grits her teeth, resisting the urge to transport herself to Stregobor and strangle him.
“I’ll be back,” Renfri says, lips flattening into a thin line. “Take care of her.”
“Of course,” Yennefer promises, and Renfri nods at her curtly before gathering Triss in her arms, pressing a kiss to her curly hair.
“See you in a bit,” Renfri murmurs, voice strained, before disappearing in a cloud of smoke, and Triss lets out a shaky breath.
“Do you think…” Her voice wavers, and Yennefer curls her arms around Triss’ waist, hatred a bright flame within her.
“He’ll have to go through Renfri. He’ll have to go through me.” Yennefer echoes the words from some time ago, and Triss sinks into Yennefer’s arms.
“Renfri will be fine,” Triss murmurs to herself, and Yennefer holds her tighter, trying to curb her own worry for Renfri. Renfri can take care of herself - she’s fierce, deadly, powerful, and if Stregobor has called the Olympian gods for a meeting, he wouldn’t dare attack her in front of them all.
Unless -
Fear coils, heavy and sour, in the depths of her gut.
Unless it’s a trap.
Yennefer loosens her arms, ready to tell Triss and suggest that they go after Renfri, just in case, when Triss springs up, eyes wild.
“Renfri,” she gasps, clutching one hand to her heart, and Yennefer leaps to her feet, the fear in her gut growing heavier at the desperation in Triss’ voice. “Renfri, she -”
Wordlessly, Yennefer grabs Triss’ hand and shrouds them in shadows, reaching out to feel for that tug towards the fiery strength of Renfri’s essence and latching onto it, and Yennefer transports them to where Renfri is - the grand halls of Olympus, which Yennefer hasn’t stepped foot in since Stregobor had exiled her to the underworld. The halls are empty, save for Stregobor standing triumphantly over Renfri, hands crackling with lightning as Renfri struggles to her feet, daggers in her hands and eyes glowing red.
“Look who’s joined us,” Stregobor purrs, and Yennefer growls, the earth rumbling around Stregobor as skeletons form from bones rising out of the ground, throwing themselves at Stregobor, who bats them away easily. “Just come to me, dear, lovely Triss. This doesn’t have to be difficult.”
“You will never take her,” Renfri pants, stumbling slightly, and Triss rushes towards her, hands glowing in a desperate attempt to heal Renfri’s injuries. Yennefer steps up next to them, shadows gathering behind her as bones clatter and form into an army of the dead.
“You would surround yourself with,” Stregobor’s lip curls in disdain as he sneers at Yennefer and Renfri, “them? The heartless goddess of the underworld and the cruel goddess of war? You could do so much better, my blossom.”
“Fuck off,” Triss snaps, a rare fire in her voice as she glares hatefully at Stregobor. “They’re far better than you.”
“What have they tainted your mind with, my dearest flower?” Stregobor croons, reaching for Triss, and Renfri snarls, launching herself at Stregobor, deftly dodging the electricity he sends racing towards her. Yennefer follows behind her, willing the skeletons to converge in on Stregobor, spikes shooting from the earth towards him, and Stregobor evades their attacks with difficulty as Renfri presses on, wild and relentless, with Yennefer a wave of dark power behind her.
Stregobor will not touch Triss.
A stray root comes out of nowhere in front of Stregobor, and he trips over it, allowing Renfri to dart in and scoring a gash across his stomach as several of Yennefer’s skeletons scratch viciously at him, aided by a series of thick, thorny vines. Ichor spills from his wound, and Stregobor roars in anger, eyes glowing electric blue as he sends bolts of lightning zig-zagging towards them. The lightning burns the vines to blackened crisps, and Yennefer barely manages to swerve to the side, but her skeletons aren’t so lucky, crumpling to the ground from the force of Stregobor’s attack.
“I was going to let you live,” Stregobor growls out, hands crackling with electricity, ozone filling the air. “But now - now, you’ve made an enemy of the king of the gods, and you shall die for it.”
“You talk too much,” Renfri says, baring her teeth savagely as she lunges towards Stregobor, easily avoiding his attempts to strike at her even with her injuries, and Yennefer channels her power into the ground, sending spikes of stone hurtling towards Stregobor, while roots grow from the ground underneath Stregobor’s feet, vines wrapping around his ankles and throwing him off balance.
Yennefer chances a quick look towards Triss, whose face is pinched in concentration as she strategically directs the plants to inconvenience Stregobor, and Yennefer bites back a proud grin as she turns her attention back towards her assault, momentarily obscuring Stregobor’s vision with shadows and allowing Renfri to bury her dagger into his side.
Stregobor howls in pain, booming across the grand halls, and for a split second, Yennefer thinks they’ve won - until Stregobor lashes out with the full strength of his powers, rain crashing down from the heavens as thunder booms, gusts of wind roaring around them, and flashes of lightning bounce around the halls, striking Yennefer and sending her flying backwards with a cry. Renfri lets out a pained grunt, crumpling to the ground, the smell of singed flesh filling the air as Stregobor stumbles to his feet, bleeding ichor but face twisted in triumph.
“You can’t defeat me,” he pants, levelling a smug grin at Yennefer and Renfri as he raises a hand glowing bright with electricity, readying himself for a final, devastating blow. “I am -”
“An arrogant bastard,” Triss hisses from behind Yennefer, and the ground erupts with plants, with nettles and poison ivy and vines lined with deadly thorns, all reaching towards Stregobor in a vibrant wave of death. Stregobor sends lightning down on the plants, burning them to ash, but they keep coming, growing endlessly from the ground in unstopping waves, and Stregobor is weak from his wounds, his strikes too feeble to completely strike down Triss’ plants.
Thick vines wrap around his legs, trapping him in place, and Stregobor cries out in pain when poisonous leaves brush across his open wound, thorns digging into his skin. Struggling to pull herself to her feet, Yennefer twists her head to look at Triss, whose hands are engulfed in a familiar gold as she makes a jerking motion, causing the vines to snake up Stregobor’s body, wrapping around his throat.
“Don’t you dare,” Triss threatens, and Stregobor chokes and sputters, pulling futilely at the vines around his throat, his power entirely spent. “Don’t you dare touch them.”
Yennefer limps over to Renfri, pulling her to her feet, and together, they stumble towards Triss, holding onto each other as their bodies work to heal Stregobor’s damage. Triss turns towards them, and Yennefer’s breath is stolen away by how beautiful she looks like this, glowing with power, eyes bright and fierce, hair whipping around her face and skirts billowing in the lingering gale.
Stregobor tries to make a grab for her, but Triss curls one hand into a fist, and vines wrap around Stregobor’s limbs, tightening around his throat.
“What do we do with him?”
“Kill him,” Renfri spits out in disgust, glaring at Stregobor with unbridled hatred. Behind her eyes lies centuries of being hated by the gods because of Stregobor’s lies, his claims about the Black Sun and how the goddess of war is tainted, incurably corrupted, bloodthirsty and mindlessly violent, similar to how Stregobor has spread rumours about Yennefer’s destructive cruelty amongst the gods, and Yennefer tightens her grip around Renfri, a reminder that she’s here, with Yennefer and Triss; a reminder that she is loved.
There’s a hardness in Triss’ eyes that Yennefer has never seen before, and Yennefer knows that she must be thinking about the same thing, about Stregobor’s lies, about Renfri, who is fierce and gentle and savage and kind, who is nothing like what Stregobor says, who deserves none of what Stregobor has done to her.
“Will he stay dead?” Triss asks, her vines never wavering.
“My blades can kill a god,” Renfri answers, drawing a sword and spinning it with graceful ease.
“I’ll make sure he stays dead,” Yennefer adds. Tartarus is perhaps the worst punishment one could dream of, and Yennefer relishes in the thought of trapping Stregobor there for eternity - punishment for what he’s done to Triss, trying to force her into marriage with him; punishment for what he’s done to Renfri, with his lies and rumours; punishment for what he’s done to Yennefer, exiling her to the underworld and ostracising her from her kind.
Triss nods, resolute, and tightens her fist. The vines grow crushingly tight around Stregobor’s throat, choking the air out of him until he falls limp, and Renfri steps forward, sinking her sword deep into his heart. Yennefer lets out a breath when she feels Stregobor’s soul enter the underworld, and she guides it deep into the pits of Tartarus, where no light will ever reach.
“It is done,” Yennefer declares, and Triss lets her hands fall to her side, carelessly dropping Stregobor’s body down, the vines loosening and retracting back into the ground.
“Are you alright?” Triss asks, immediately twisting to fuss over Yennefer and Renfri, pressing her hands to where Stregobor had struck them, and Yennefer feels her wounds heal with the gentle coaxing of Triss’ power.
“I’m fine,” Yennefer murmurs, reaching out to stroke Triss’ cheek, brushing their lips together for a moment before Triss resumes healing them. “You were great out there.”
Renfri barks out a laugh, exhilarated and unrestrained. “He’s dead,” she says, letting out another laugh, and Yennefer smiles in response. “He’s finally dead. For good.”
“Good riddance,” Yennefer spits out, and Triss finishes healing their injuries, drawing back her hands.
“Shall we go home?” Triss asks, and Yennefer’s heart warms.
Home. The underworld is her home now - their home, all three of them, and Yennefer extends her hands to her companions, heart light and impossibly giddy.
“Let’s go home.”
Triss takes her outstretched hands, and Renfri curls her arms around her waist, and Yennefer calls the shadows to them, bringing them back to the underworld, bringing them home.