Work Text:
Fringilla had spent so many years alone in her life. She’d been an outcast after Aretuza, a laughing stock, and then her work in Nilfgaard had left her hated by all her peers and family. Even her uncle had cut her off, and it wasn’t as if the Nilfgaardian army favoured friendships. It was all about loyalty to the White Flame and the cause.
Still, over the years, she’d watched Cahir grow from a young boy to a fine and brilliant soldier. What’s more is that he had become her best friend in the living hell that was the Continent. They’d been thick as thieves during their time in the army, and despite the fact that Cahir technically outranked her, there was no denying who held the real power out of the two, especially after Fringilla shrugged off Tissaia’s teachings. Forbidden magic was as addictive as it was powerful, and soon Fringilla felt as if she could take on the world, and so she did, gladly, under the White Flames’ guidance and her best friend at her side.
Until Sodden.
And everything had fallen apart because of Yennefer… it was always fucking Yennefer. Whenever, Fringilla’s well thought out plans fell apart, Yennefer was there.
It was bloody infuriating! The young girl that she’d once thought of as her friend and been chosen as her greatest rival by Destiny or some other shit.
So Fringilla had learned to fend for herself, and the last people she should trust were other mages. It was all politics and personal gain, which was fine, because she knew the game and she played it well. One didn’t become the lead sorceress to the most prevalent nation on the Continent without knowing how to play at the stupid political warfare that every mage seemed to be obsessed with, which is why her alliance with Francesca scared her.
It had been politics at first. They needed each other to appease the Deathless Mother, and that should have been it, but Xintrea was lonely and often it was just Fringilla and Francesca and their walks around the grounds. Their partnership had… grown. Without either of them even realising it, allies had become friends, and as butterflies fluttered around the flowers that Francesca left in her wake, Fringilla couldn’t help being reminded of the butterflies in her stomach.
Partners. That was what they had agreed on, and Fringilla had been sure that had meant like… work partners, or friends or whatever, but not…
Not love.
And yet, looking at her friend, Fringilla was starting to think that she’d grossly misjudged the situation. With little bursts of magic, Francesca had turned the pillaged garden into a paradise for her kin, and the flowers bloomed in more colours than Fringilla had ever seen. It was beautiful, but more importantly, she was beautiful. Some of the flowers had drifted off their bushes, levitating through the air beside them as they walked, weaving together until they’d formed a crown of sweet smelling petals. When it was complete, it had landed gently on Francesca’s head and they carried on with their stroll as if nothing had changed.
Except everything had.
There was a storm brewing inside of Fringilla that she couldn’t control, and she knew that she was falling in love with the Queen of the Elves.
“Fuck!” she hissed, stumbling back and away from her friend.
As gracefully as ever, Francesca turned around, her hands resting on her swollen stomach. “Fringilla?”
She looked ethereal, radiant… perfect. Everything about her seemed to draw Fringilla in, and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t part of the plan, and with Yennefer out of the way, Fringilla hadn’t expected anything to disrupt her life this time. Panicking, Fringilla tried to throw up her mental walls, but it was too late, Francesca had seen everything.
“Oh, I see,” she said with a dazzling smile, reaching out to Fringilla with long elegant fingers. “It’s not just you.”
Hope.
It had been a long time since Fringilla had felt hope, but that was what Francesca embodied - Hope for her, for the elves… for Nilfgaard. Francesca had been their rebirth, the start of a new fight, but she had given Fringilla something far better than that.
She’d given her a friend.
A lover.
“It’s not just me,” Fringilla repeated Francesca’s words as she laced their fingers together. “Partners?”
“Partners,” Francesca agreed.