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Branches whip at Geralt’s face, scoring tiny lines across it, but he pays them no mind. He spurs Roach on faster, faster, racing against time itself. Ciri clings weakly to his armor, seated behind him on Roach, and he worries with every jolt and bump that she’ll end up slipping off, too exhausted to hold on any longer.
It brings to mind a memory of another night like this one—Jaskier, coughing up blood, wheezing against his back, riding towards the mayor’s mansion, where lies a cure that he can only hope will work.
As always whenever he thinks about Jaskier and all the regrets he has surrounding him, he has to brush away the guilt and heartache that try to overtake him. The past is the past, no matter how much he might wish to change it, and there are more important things at stake. Like his Child Surprise.
They just need to make it to the manor. She’s held on for so long already, his brave girl, but a wasting disease like this one strikes quickly and burns through people even quicker. If only he’d noticed—but Ciri, ever stubborn and not wanting him to worry, hid it from him until she collapsed. He tried willow and yarrow for fever, and when that didn’t work, diluted Swallow, and when that didn’t work, raced to the nearest healer, damn trying to hide.
But the healer hadn’t known what illness plagued her either—had even hinted at a painless end. But when she saw the look on his face at her suggestion, she divulged a local legend, known only in whispers—the Tree of Life, said to have the ability to heal anything, and even to grant immortality.
And so here they are, racing away from the town towards the manor at the edge of town—he doesn’t even know where they are, doesn’t need to, only knows that it’s vital that he hurry.
The manor’s lights glow in the distance, and on the wind he can hear voices, music. There must be a banquet happening.
No matter. He’s getting Ciri to that tree, interrupted banquet or not.
He just has to hurry.
Yennefer excuses herself from the dancefloor, taking a moment to collect herself after the whirlwind of the night. She’s better than she was, directly after Sodden, but she still finds herself struggling, at times, inexcusably weak.
Not to mention, her magic is all but inexistent. On her good days, she can manage simple spells, a hex if she’s lucky. On her bad days, well… she learned the hard way that her control is rather shite now. If she has one dress irreparably burnt at the edges, well, no one else need know.
Which is, in fact, why she’s here: she needs to recover her Chaos after unleashing it at Sodden. She heard tell of a powerful being in Kerack—the Tree of Life, a force full to the brim with Chaos, and set out as soon as possible. And she’s here, tonight, at the banquet, having secured an invite by seducing some lord or other—she didn’t bother much to remember his name, after she had what she wanted.
So far, she’s heard nothing particularly interesting, and the night is growing late. If she doesn’t find anything soon, she’ll be quite angry to have wasted a trip.
For now, she sips at her goblet of wine, enjoying its cool freshness, and just watches. People dance, and gossip, and sneak off to have trysts in the moonlight—except for one nobleman, who slips away from the festivities with nobody hanging off of his arm. Strange.
Yennefer, curious, follows. She skirts the dancefloor, following the nobleman, though as he turns down the corridor, she’s stopped by a portly fellow, drunk by the smell of his breath and the sway in his step. He slurs something incomprehensible and reaches out for her, and as much as she wishes she still had control over her Chaos, she doesn’t, and instead of setting him on fire or cursing him with a perpetually limp prick, all she can do is snatch her arm away and push past him.
For a second, she thinks she’s lost the nobleman, but as she walks down the corridor, she passes a door leading to the gardens outside, and hears a scraping sound.
The gardens, though pale in the early morning light (and when had it gotten so late?) are nevertheless beautiful. A large lawn stretches out, at the center of which stands a ring of willow trees, branches reaching up towards the heavens, roots tunneling deep into the heart of the earth.
And the nobleman is carving at the trunk of one, seemingly random hacks and slashes, no discernable design or pattern in mind. The tree groans as if in pain, and she stretches her mind outwards—it is.
This tree is sentient, thinking, possibly more powerful than she is—definitely more powerful than she is now, so drained.
And whatever it is this nobleman wants, he’s relentless in his pursuit of it, cutting and cutting with no regard for the tree’s health.
She takes her own dagger, hidden in a sheath under her dress, and holds it to the small of his back—she’s not above inflicting pain for her own benefit, but with the way the man is hacking at it, he’s likely to kill the tree before any good can come of it.
“I’m afraid I’ll be taking over from here,” she tells him, and then throws him to the ground. He lands hard, and comes up spitting mad, ready for a fight. Yennefer takes a risk and conjures a small shower of sparks in her weaponless hand, and he abruptly reconsiders, and runs back inside—whether that’s to tell everyone of the mad witch in the gardens, or to change his underthings, she doesn’t know or care.
She sheathes her dagger and places her hands on the tree, closing her eyes and focusing inwards on the spark of life she feels inside of it. She hones in closer, and…
Son of a whore, that hurt! Bloody nobles and their bloody knives, cutting away in their greed…
What the fuck? She knew this tree was powerful, but never thought it would be sentient enough to talk. And, when she listens again…
Still doesn’t hurt as much as the mountain. Those cruel words, stupid unfeeling witcher…
Her eyes fly open. Holy shit. This is Jaskier. She recalls him mentioning, once, that he was from Lettenhove, but what happened? Has he been cursed, transformed? How did he end up here, in Lord Pankratz’s gardens? (And… should she help? Strike a deal of some kind, perhaps?)
She closes her eyes again and opens up a dialogue with him—he yelps, surprised, at the first touch of her mind to his, but his confusion quickly turns to bitterness when he realizes exactly who she is.
Yennefer. Of all the people to come across me when I can’t run away…
What happened, piss off the wrong sorceress? she shoots back. I was going to offer to break your curse, but if you’re going to be so rude, then perhaps I won’t bother.
Oh, please. As if a simple curse could transform me into this beauty.
And she has to admit, he is beautiful. In the light of the steadily rising sun, his leaves glow with a golden-orange light, his roots are twisted and well-entrenched, his trunk steady, solid, but for where the nobleman’s knife had carved at it.
He preens under her attention, leaves rustling with pride. Oh, get over yourself, she scoffs. All it would take is one little flame… she threatens, just to keep him on his toes. Or… roots? Whatever.
Despite her threats, though, she knows she could never follow through. He was always annoying as a human—but she’d known him, was the thing, knew the songs he sang, knew the ale he ordered at taverns, knew the way his nose crinkled whenever he saw her.
And as for using the tree to replenish her Chaos—well, it’s all but out of the question, now. She knows the sorts of rituals one might perform for a magical exchange like that, and most all end up with the victim dead or a husk at best.
Inflicting pain for personal gain, yes, she’s been known to do that—but the pain, too, would be personal. Can she stomach it? The Yennefer of old, the ambitious, cutthroat Yennefer—she wouldn’t have hesitated, not if it meant getting what she wanted. But this Yennefer—the Yennefer who fell for a witcher, who then had her heart broken by said witcher, who agreed to fight at Sodden Hill, who let her Chaos explode—she’s different, and damn it all, she just can’t do it. She can’t kill the bard, as annoying as he is, as easy as it would be, not even for her own gain.
Jaskier, meanwhile, is oblivious to her internal debate. His mind—well, not mind, but consciousness, perhaps—nudges curiously at hers. What are you doing here?
She drops her dagger and sits down heavily on the roots, closing her eyes and dropping her head into her hands. Doesn’t matter.
Yen, if you think I believe that, then you must think me a fool.
I do think you’re a fool. What kind of idiot gets themselves stuck in a tree?
…Point. Listen, what’s wrong? Don’t try and tell me nothing’s wrong, because at the very least, you’re in Lettenhove, which is already a sign of insanity or desperate need.
His voice is comforting, compassionate, without a trace of falseness in it. She imagines a tree trying to give a hug, and huffs a quiet laugh, before realizing that he is indeed trying—his branches are shifting around her to form a comfortable seat, bark molding around her in a mockery of an embrace.
…It’s not the weirdest thing she’s ever seen, but it’s definitely up there.
What are you doing? she snaps, though it has no fire behind it.
You looked sad, he explains, and adds, and I know sadness all too well, lately.
The mountain, she responds. You mentioned the mountain, and cruel words…
He sighs as only a tree can, leaves rustling. Geralt, he finally answers. After you left, well… he wasn’t kind.
I’m sorry, she offers, hating how it sounds hollow.
He offers her sympathy in return. What a pair of fools we make, he says bitterly. Tossed aside by a witcher, broken and stuck.
Who’s broken? she hisses, but her heart isn’t in it. She settles. You’re right. I can hardly manage a hex on a good day. It’s why I came to see you, actually. Thought you were supposed to be the Tree of Life. Arbor vitae.
Oh, are they spreading that old rumor again? That would be my father. Bastard. Thinks he’ll look important if he has all the wonders of the world at his fingers, never mind that one of them is his son, Jaskier scoffs. Sorry to disappoint, but it’s only me.
Whereas before she might have come up with some quip about him usually being a disappointment, all she feels now is tired. The hour is late—or rather, early, with the sun rising—and frankly, all she wants right now is a moment of peace before having to trudge through the ballroom on her way out.
And then there’s a commotion from inside—shouts, and ringing steel, and clattering furniture—the sounds of a fight?
She opens her eyes just in time to see Geralt come bursting into the courtyard, a legion of unconscious guards and screaming, drunk nobles in his wake. He freezes when he sees her there, perched on Jaskier’s roots.
“Yennefer,” he says, as if he can’t quite believe it—as if he’d expected to never see her again, which honestly, she would be more than happy to never see him again as well.
Then he moves aside to reveal a young girl, tucked pale against his side, trembling like a leaf. She could be his daughter, his spitting image, were it not for the fact that she knows witchers are sterile. Has he finally claimed his Child of Surprise?
What is he doing here? Jaskier yelps, panicked.
“What are you doing here?” Geralt asks.
“What are you doing here?” she counters. “And with your Child Surprise, if I’m not wrong?”
“She needs help. Please, Yen,” and fuck, that nickname hits her right in the heart, every time, “can you heal her? I don’t—I don’t know what it is.”
And when Yennefer looks closer, she can see it—the signs of illness. The girl is too thin, and has an unhealthy pallor, and when Yennefer really focuses, she can make it out—the stink of Chaos gone wrong, stoppered up like a pus-filled wound that needs to be drained.
Ciri—what’s wrong with her? Jaskier frets. Apparently he knows her.
“You have magic,” she asks-slash-tells Ciri. Ciri nods. “It’s eating you from the inside out. You need to release it, or it will consume you.”
It’s the truth, but it’s perhaps too harsh, for the way Geralt puts his hands on her shoulders, steadying her. “Yen,” he says disapprovingly, but he’s long since lost the right to lecture her. He, too, seems to realize this, and sighs. “Can you help her?”
Please, Yennefer, Jaskier begs. I can’t—fuck, if I wasn’t trapped here, I would, but—
“I can’t.”
“Yennefer, please,” he says, and though he always speaks with a growl, she can hear the way it cracks and breaks as he begs. “If this is about the mountain—”
“It’s not.” She takes a deep breath in and reminds herself that as much anger and spite she still has for Geralt, he deserves an explanation, at least. “My Chaos. It’s not—stable.”
“Chaos usually isn’t,” he responds, a frown pulling at his brow.
“This is different,” she snaps, watching as her words score lines of pain in his expression. With effort, she gentles her voice, if only because she’s so tired of holding onto her anger, and also, the girl looks as if she’s about to faint. “I can’t control it. If I mess about with her Chaos, she’s just as likely to end up dead, or worse.”
Geralt nods, then, and places a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Then stand back,” he advises, and walks towards the tree—towards Jaskier.
“What are you thinking?” she hisses, standing up and placing herself in his way.
He grits his teeth. “Get out of my way, Yennefer. I won’t let Ciri die.”
“So you’ll kill the Tree of Life for one girl?” she demands.
“If that’s what it takes.” He sounds so resolute, holding tight to those he loves, afraid of letting go. It’s what killed their relationship, and his relationship with Jaskier, and now—now it’s about to kill Jaskier himself.
“You don’t know what’s going on here, Geralt,” she warns. “There has to be another way.”
“There’s no time to find another way,” Geralt growls. “She’s dying.”
Jaskier reaches out again—this time Yennefer can tell that he’s projecting to more than just her. I can help, he says, and Geralt’s frown lessens for a moment before coming back in full force.
“Is that him?” Ciri’s voice rings clear but weak.
“Yes,” Yennefer answers, at the same time Jaskier says, Bring her closer. I can help.
Ciri shuffles closer, shrugging out from under Geralt’s heavy protective hand. She lays a hand on the tree’s trunk, and even with her sense of Chaos dull like an overexposed nerve, Yennefer can feel the power that starts to seep from her.
It’s not an explosion, not the burst of built-up Chaos that she might have expected from one so close to rupturing. It’s like the magic is being slowly siphoned off, a controlled flow from Ciri to Jaskier.
After just a few seconds, she’s already looking healthier. As Yennefer and Geralt watch, both tense for different reasons, Ciri grows better and better, until she stumbles back from the tree, eyes wide open but no longer at risk of exploding with power.
Geralt catches her and draws her close to his chest, pulling back from the tree, which is humming with energy. Then, with a sudden pop, like a bottle of sparkling wine being uncorked, Jaskier—in human form, two legs and arms and a head—falls out of the tree.
“Oof,” he wheezes, flailing about uncoordinatedly before he gets his limbs under him and pushes himself up. “I’m back!”
“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, his grip on Ciri slackening.
“Geralt. You were going to kill me,” he says crossly.
“I didn’t know. I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t,” Yennefer interjects. “Perhaps next time you’ll listen when I tell you not to go wildly swinging your sword about?”
“How?” Geralt barrels on, ignoring her pointed comment. “What are you?”
Jaskier suddenly looks nervous, though Geralt’s hands are nowhere near his silver sword. “A nymph,” Yennefer supplies, when no explanation is forthcoming. Jaskier makes a noise of protest.
“A dryad,” he corrects. “Tree spirit. I don’t know who’s been spreading that tree of life nonsense. I have a little magic, sure, but nothing so powerful.”
“How did you end up here?” Geralt asks. “After…”
“After you so cruelly shouted me off that mountain, you mean?” Geralt winces. “Oh, it’s fine. I’ve already forgiven you, I just needed some time to get over the hurt. I thought to come back home to my tree and mope, but, well, I forgot how difficult it is to change between forms,” Jaskier says, bashful. “But! That boost of magic was exactly what I needed. Thank you, dear,” he says to Ciri, sketching a bow.
Yennefer forgot just how exhausting he could be.
“You’re Geralt’s friend?” Ciri asks, testing the waters. Jaskier hesitates, and to everyone’s surprise, Geralt is the one to answer.
“Yes,” he says definitively. Yennefer feels a pang of—not jealousy, not quite, but something close to it. Envy, perhaps, of how easy it is for them. She’s so tired.
“And who are you?” Ciri asks, turning to Yennefer herself. Those bright green eyes pierce straight to her core.
“Yennefer of Vengerberg.”
“You’re Yennefer?” Ciri sounds as if she can hardly believe it. “We found you!”
“What?” That’s not the reaction she was expecting at all.
“Can they come with us?” Ciri asks, turning to Geralt.
“I’m sorry, what’s happening? How do you know her? Come where?” Jaskier interjects.
“We’re headed to Kaer Morhen. You…” Geralt clears his throat. “You’d be welcome to join us.”
“You can teach me about Chaos,” Ciri says excitedly, then turns to Jaskier. “And there are plenty of trees in the mountains. You’d like it,” she almost begs.
Yennefer thinks about the warfront, ever marching further north, and from the look on Jaskier’s face, he’s thinking it too. Kaer Morhen may well soon be one of the only sanctuaries left.
“I’ve always wanted to see the mountains,” Jaskier says. “If you’ll have me.”
“I suppose a witcher keep would have plenty of magic to study. Perhaps there I’ll get my Chaos back,” Yennefer adds.
Ciri smiles widely, and behind her, though it’s small, Geralt smiles too.