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The voices outside start to rise, tension around the little cottage and the clearing in which it sits building with them, and Triss closes her eyes and focuses very intently on grinding a selection of herbs into a fine dust with her pestle.
I can’t do it!
Yes, you can. You just need to try harder.
I’m trying as hard as I can! This is impossible!
Ciri–
I wish I were back with Geralt. It’s easier fighting with swords.
Well, you’re not. Geralt’s not here, and you have to achieve mastery over your sorcery. You must.
I just can’t do this! I’m done for the day.
No, you’re not. Where are you going?
Away from you!
Cirilla!
Triss looks up from her herbs--very finely ground indeed--just in time to see the back door fly open, bouncing off the wall with the force of Ciri’s frustration. It nearly rebounds shut, but Ciri, her face like a thundercloud, slaps it before it can hit her, stopping it in its tracks. She looks like she’s on the verge of screaming, or bursting into tears, or both, and Triss’s heart aches for her. She wants nothing more to sweep over to Ciri and gather her up in her arms and stroke her hair and tell her everything will be alright.
She doesn’t know that everything will be alright, she can’t promise that everything will be alright, and that? That makes her heart ache, too.
As much as she wants to hug all of the frustration right out of Ciri, every line of her body is flooded with tension, and Triss knows that she would be rebuffed, loudly and possibly with great vulgarity, before she makes it three steps across the room.
She stays still, quiet, and wills the worry that surely can be found around her eyes and the corners of her lips to dissolve instead into pleasant neutrality. She’s not entirely sure that she succeeds.
Ultimately, it matters not. Ciri doesn’t even spare her a glance before stomping through Triss’s workroom and the kitchen and up the stairs to her own bedroom.
Triss holds her breath, closes her eyes, and waits. The bedroom door slams shut, rattling the walls of the cottage. Ah, yes, of course, there it is. She exhales, slowly, trying to pull tranquility and serenity around her like a cloak.
She makes no progress in this effort.
Her eyes have only just started to flutter open when an explosion, coupled with a screech of rage, sounds from outside, and Triss lunges for the window.
Ah.
She had enjoyed that rowan tree. Now, it is naught but a pile of smouldering ash.
Triss sighs and supposes that she should be glad Yennefer has regained enough control over her chaos in the aftermath of Sodden Hill that she can target her ire to one unfortunate tree, and not the whole forest surrounding the clearing. It is some comfort, at least.
Movement catches her eye and she glances over to see Yennefer, pacing along the treeline, one fist tangled up in her hair, the other clutching the end of her sleeve, her posture practically screaming don’t even look at me right now.
Triss’s heart aches for her, too. It hasn’t been easy. Absolutely nothing about the last year of their lives has been easy. She wants nothing more than to sweep outside and gather Yen up in her arms and stroke her hair and bestow the softest of soft kisses all over her face and tell her everything will be alright.
Will everything be alright? She wishes she knew.
She would be rebuffed here, too. She knows it as well as she knows her own name. She might manage to step outside the door, but that’s as far as she would make it before Yennefer would storm off, needing to stew in her fury alone for a little while.
Honestly, Triss is surprised Yennefer hasn’t already vanished. Perhaps it’s starting to sink in that this new world of theirs, helping--along with Geralt, his bard, and his Witcher brethren--to train and protect Ciri, to give her--still so very young and so very alone in the world--something resembling a family, it’s something that Yen doesn’t have to brave by herself. She can rely on people, she can lean on them when she needs support, she can trust.
That thought sends a tendril of warmth curling through Triss, settling somewhere around her heart, and when she smiles to herself, it’s tinged with only a little bit of sadness and lingering anxiety.
She glances back outside at Yennefer, glances up towards the general direction of Ciri’s bedroom, glances over to the kitchen, and she contemplates their stores of ingredients and the wide range of recipes that she has collected over the years.
“Yes,” she murmurs, rubbing her hands together as a plan starts to coalesce. “Yes, I think this will work very nicely indeed.”
*
Triss goes to Cirilla first.
She carefully shifts the tray to one hand and knocks on the door, shut tight against the world and all its shadows and hurts. “It’s Triss,” she says, when Ciri doesn’t immediately answer.
She waits a beat, two, and prepares to set the tray onto the floor. Then, there it is.
“Come in.” The voice is soft, timid. A frightened teenage girl, not a princess exercising her ability to command.
Triss eases the door open and her heart clenches in her chest at the sight before her: Ciri, curled in a ball around a pillow, all of her blankets and quilts piled on top of and around her.
Before Triss can even say anything, Ciri’s gaze zeros in on the tray, and she sits bolt upright, a patchwork quilt falling from around her shoulders to pool at her hips. “Did you make me cheesy potatoes?”
In Triss’s experience, teenage girls--not even those who are former princesses, in hiding and with a strange and nearly uncontrollable power brewing inside them--cannot resist the lure of a giant bowl of mashed potatoes absolutely smothered in cheese.
It makes Triss grin, the enthusiasm over a good, simple meal. It eases a bit of the ache in her heart, knowing that one of her own favorites from when she was growing up strikes a chord with Ciri as well. “I did.”
Ciri settles her back against the headboard of the bed, and Triss sets the tray over her lap. Ciri’s fingertips drift over the bluebells sitting in a small vase in the corner, the tiniest of smiles tugging at the corner of her lips, but she’s almost immediately distracted. “And banana bread, too! Triss!”
Triss smoothes a hand down Ciri’s long hair and then gives in to the urge to place a kiss to the crown of her head. “Banana bread, too. Tuck in, dear.”
Ciri does, with great verve.
“How’d you even make all this so fast?” Ciri asks through a mouthful of mashed potatoes just as Triss starts to move towards the door. “Will I one day have enough control over chaos or whatever so that I can use these powers of mine to make really good food really quickly instead of flattening my enemies with the sound of my screams?”
Triss smiles again, but she knows that there’s a sadness to it, a weariness that makes Ciri’s shoulders slump when she looks over. “We all have our different strengths in manipulating chaos, I’m afraid. Helping things to grow, to reach their potential, that’s my specialty. Personally, I’m terrible at flattening my enemies with my screams.” She raises her hands in a what can you do? gesture and is rewarded by another tiny smile before Ciri takes a large bite of bread. “We’ll figure it out, Ciri.”
Ciri taps her spoon on the edge of the bowl, restless, agitated. “I am trying, Triss.”
“I know you are.” She pauses, deliberating, and then forges ahead. “And Yennefer does, too.”
The remaining cheesy potatoes are suddenly extremely interesting, and Ciri does not meet Triss’s eyes. “I should apologize to Yennefer.”
“Yes, you should.”
“She didn’t deserve me yelling at her. And I definitely shouldn’t have brought Geralt into it, that was very rude of me. I know Yennefer’s just trying to help me. That’s what you’re all trying to do.”
Heart aching, Triss perches on the edge of the bed right next to Ciri’s knees. “Ciri–”
“It’s just so frustrating,” she whispers, her voice near breaking. “And scary. And I don’t want to be scared of Nilfgaard. And I don’t want to be scared of sorcery, and I’m not! I never was when Mousesack”--she hiccups slightly and swipes roughly at her eyes, as if to will the tears away before they can even think of forming--”would do tricks that would make me and Eist laugh and grandmama roll her eyes. I wasn’t afraid then, not at all, but now the sorcery, this . . . this chaos is inside me, and I don’t know how to deal with it or work with it, and it scares me and I don’t want it to.”
Oh, how Triss’s heart breaks for this child. And she is just a child, however much she is also forced to pretend, for her own safety, to be so much wiser and stronger than her tender years.
“Ciri, may I hug you?”
Ciri hiccups again and has the presence of mind to move the tray off her lap and onto the small table next to the bed. “Yes, please.”
Triss folds her into her arms, holding her tight. Ciri relaxes into the embrace almost immediately, leaning heavily into Triss and burying her face into Triss’s shoulder. Ciri doesn’t sob, she doesn’t wail, but Triss can feel her tears through the fabric of her dress, and she says nothing, just holds her, lets her mourn for everything that she’s lost, lets her weep for her destroyed future, lets her worry over her new uncertain one.
“I’m so scared, and I don’t want to be,” Ciri whispers, her voice muffled.
Triss draws back just enough so she can look Ciri in the eyes. “It’s okay to be scared, my sweet. You’re in a very scary situation, and you are so very young. I can’t promise you that everything is going to turn out well. I just can’t. But I can promise you that myself and Yennefer and the mages allied with us and Geralt and his fellow Witchers and Jaskier, we will all do everything within our very considerable powers to keep you safe and help you find your place in the world. We just ask that you work with us and trust us and keep trying.”
Ciri manages a watery smile that becomes more resolute the longer it sits on her face without slipping off. A princess, drawing her power around her. “I think I can do that.”
Triss leans forward and kisses her right in the center of her forehead. “Good. Now finish your supper, and when you’re ready, come downstairs, and there will be dessert, too.”
“You made dessert, too?”
“I sure did.” Triss gives one last stroke to Ciri’s hair before standing and asking, mischief dancing in her tone, “Can I tell you a secret?”
Ciri perks up a bit at that. “Of course.”
“You’re struggling a bit with sorcery, in a way you didn’t struggle when Geralt was teaching you the basics of sword fighting, and that frustrates you because you don’t like not being immediately perfect at something.” The look on Ciri’s face says that Ciri is very well aware of this and very much does not appreciate it being said out loud. “You and Yennefer are very alike in that regard. And she’s aware of that as well. I promise you she’s not angry with you.”
The dubious expression on Ciri’s face gives way to a thoughtful one and she nods. “I’ll be down soon.”
“Take your time. Enjoy the cheesy goodness.”
Ciri chuckles. “I will. And Triss?” Triss pauses, her hand on the doorknob, and looks back. There’s a smile on Ciri’s face, a real one, and Triss feels herself responding in kind, helpless to do otherwise. “Thanks.”
“Any time, Ciri. Any time.”
*
Triss returns downstairs to find Yennefer standing in the kitchen, her hands on her hips, staring in bemusement at Triss’s impromptu culinary efforts.
“You were busy, I see.”
Yennefer holds out a hand, and Triss moves towards her, powerless over the inexorable pull they both have over the other. She wraps her arms around Yennefer’s waist from behind and smiles when Yen rests her hands on top of Triss’s, linking their fingers. Triss kisses her once, twice, along the sharp curve of her jawline and murmurs into that soft place just beneath her ear, almost always hidden by the fall of her hair, “What do you need, dearest one?”
Yennefer sighs, almost with her entire body, and it reverberates through Triss, too. Times like this, when she’s so heightened to Yen, she wonders if they’ve forged some kind of connection between their souls, something that lets them experience each other’s feelings, lets them speak without words. She’s never shared the thought, doesn’t think the idea would be a welcome one to Yennefer, but the possibility of it intrigues Triss, and there’s that tendril of warmth again, flickering through her.
“Just this.” Yen leans back, trusting Triss to hold her up. That trust is heady, almost intoxicating, every time. “Although maybe some of that hot chocolate simmering over there wouldn’t go amiss. And do we have any cinnamon sticks?”
Triss scoffs. “As if I’d let us go without.”
“Oh, my mistake for the slanderous implication.”
“Mmmmhmmm.” Triss nips at Yen’s neck and smiles at the resulting shiver. “Light the candles, go over to the chaise. I’ll bring the fair lady her chocolate.”
Yennefer arches an eyebrow but does as she’s bid, tutting impatiently while Triss takes her time doctoring the hot chocolate. She quiets, however, her eyes going wide, when Triss brings over two mugs complete with heaping piles of cream, tiny chocolate flakes on top of that, and, yes, cinnamon sticks.
Triss is just about to make a comment about Yennefer’s unexpected sweet tooth when Yen says, “I do so enjoy sweet things,” and presses a series of kisses to Triss’s cheeks and lips. Triss, pleased to be considered a sweet thing by this woman so fierce and suddenly not at all willing to tease said woman for this predilection, kisses her back, and in their ardor, they very nearly forget their chocolate.
Only very nearly. It is hot chocolate, flavored with cinnamon and cream, after all.
The silence that settles over them as they sip their chocolate and lean into each other, shoulders pressing against shoulders, one of Yennefer’s legs thrown over Triss’s, is a comfortable one, and Triss is content to let Yennefer direct the flow of the evening. She no longer has to plead to be let inside the walls surrounding Yennefer’s heart. They are open to her, and Yennefer allows her in frequently, a welcome guest. She will let Triss know what she needs.
It’s not until they reach the dregs of their chocolate that Yennefer speaks, the light from the candles throwing shadows across her face and then illuminating her, making her radiant. “We’re going to be able to do this, right? Protect her?”
Triss sets both of their mugs a safe distance away on the floor and turns to Yennefer, clasping both of her hands. “I have no gift for prophecy,” she says, “you know this. But I sense that we will be as a family, all of us, and we will see her grow up safe, and strong, and happy, and maybe I’m extraordinarily naive to trust this sense, this . . . this ephemeral feeling that’s so foolishly optimistic, but by all the gods that have ever or will ever existed, Yen, I want to trust it. I want to trust it so badly. And I know that we will do our best to make it happen.”
Yennefer closes her eyes and leans forward, and Triss presses her lips to Yennefer’s, and it’s a tender kiss, but there’s a bite of desperation in there, too, a ferocious need for that sense to become reality.
“You have good feelings about things,” Yennefer whispers, and there’s some great emotion in her voice. Hope, maybe. “And I trust you. So if you trust this sense, I will too.”
“Yen--”
“And I won’t stop fighting like all the monsters on the Continent are facing me to make sure it comes true.”
Reluctantly, Triss releases her grasp on one of Yennefer’s hands, but only so she can cup her cheek. “Yennefer.” She pauses, waits until Yen’s eyes open, and then says, as forcefully as she’s ever said anything before, “I believe in you.”
This time, their kiss is entirely desperation.
“I love you,” Triss breathes when they part.
“And I, you,” Yennefer replies, and she looks as though she’s about to say more, but her attention catches on something behind Triss’s shoulder, and Triss knows, instantly, what she sees.
“Come on in, Ciri,” Triss calls.
She turns away from Yennefer just enough to see Ciri, hesitating at the bottom step of the stairs, supper tray clutched in a white-knuckled grip. “Are you sure?”
“We’re sure,” Yennefer says.
Ciri makes a detour to set the tray on the kitchen table and nods to herself as she turns back towards them, reaching a decision and becoming determined to stick with it. “Right. Well.” Her hands now free, she has to fight to keep her fingers from twitching with nerves, and Triss, who knows what’s coming, hides a smile with a cough and a hand in front of her mouth.
She’s pretty sure she fools no one.
Ciri takes a deep breath and begins. “Yennefer, I’m very sorry for how rude I was to you earlier. I know you’re just trying to help me, and I should not have taken my frustrations with sorcery and learning to control this power out on you. I--”
Yennefer disentangles herself from Triss and stands up, holding out a hand. Cautiously, Ciri takes it.
“I accept your apology. And I offer one for you as well.”
“But you don’t--”
“I will not apologize for pushing you. This is for your safety, which is of the utmost importance to us.”
Yennefer pauses, and Triss can see her choosing her words carefully, deciding exactly how vulnerable she wants to be in this moment.
“You are not practiced in learning sorcery, and I am not practiced in teaching it. Your frustration is understandable. I, as your teacher, as one of your guardians, need to be better about helping you work through your frustration. And sometimes, the best way to do that is to take a step back and approach the problem from a different angle, not to keep blindly pushing ahead. So I apologize for being intractable and unyielding this afternoon. You are so very talented and so very powerful and so very precious to all of us already. And I promise that I will work to find ways of helping you access that talent and that power that don’t leave both of us in tears and raging at each other and at the world.”
Ciri hardly waits for Yennefer to quit speaking before throwing her arms around her. “Apology accepted,” she mumbles, and there might be some tears there, now, but none of them remark upon it. “Triss needs to hug us too.”
“Yes, Triss, you need to hug us too,” Yennefer agrees and extricates an arm from Ciri’s vigorous embrace to hold out for Triss, who, for her part, joins the hug gladly.
“Also, I was promised dessert, and if it’s anything like Triss’s cheesy potatoes and banana bread, well, I shan’t be denied,” Ciri says, her voice regal and lofty, every bit the former Crown Princess of Cintra.
Yennefer snorts a laugh, completely inelegant and utterly graceless. “Well, now I’m intrigued as well.”
“The covered mugs on the hearth,” Triss says, and she tries not to laugh as both Ciri and Yennefer practically dive across the room.
Ciri tears the cover off one of the mugs and stares inside. “Wait. Is that a cake?”
“Ohhhhh,” Yennefer says, her eyes nearly rolling back as she swipes a finger through the chocolate frosting on top of her cake. “How much chocolate did you put in this?”
“One,” Triss says, walking over to them with a saunter to her step that says she knows they’re about to be very appreciative indeed and revelling in it, “yes, that’s a cake. And two: all of the chocolate.”
“Oh, you’re a treasure, my darling,” Yennefer says with a smacking kiss to Triss’s cheek.
“I am, you’re absolutely correct about that.”
Ciri snags a fork from the kitchen and plops down on the chaise, gesturing for Triss and Yennefer to join her, which they do, one on each side. She takes a bite of her cake, chocolate and vanilla and strawberry all mixing together, the flavors bursting on her tongue, and practically whimpers in delight. “But how do you get the cake in the mug and make it this tiny? You’ve only made three cakes.” She peers into Triss’s mug, which contains a lemon cake. “Three different cakes! How?”
Triss winks at her. “Magic.”