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It starts with pain. An excruciating headache that makes her skull feel like it's going to break apart, a slight stinging sensation, like someone's trying to puncture sections of her brain with a needle....
She lets out a groan. Tears stand in her eyes, but she can hold them back. She is Tissaia de Vries. She has survived worse. She mustn't cry!
"It's all right, Tissaia. You should cry. I know how much it hurts."
"Yennefer?" The voice comes to her as through a heavy fog. A mist that lifts as the headache subsides. Cautiously she opens her eyes, looking into a darkened room, carefully illuminated by candlelight. Next to her bed sits a young woman, her lilac eyes reflecting the glow of the candles, a strand of her glossy black hair wrapped nervously around a finger. "What are you doing here?" she utters with difficulty, trying to raise a hand to press it against her forehead in the hope of easing the excruciating pain. At least it's subsiding. It's not as bad as before, allowing her to think straight again, to see clearly. "I've come back, Tissaia," Yennefer explains to her quietly, a gentle smile on her lips that would make her suspicious if she weren't so tired. "I came back to Aretuza, just like you told me in Rinde, remember." " More than anything, I remember your answer," she replies wearily, a faint smile on her lips as her lids close again. "I'm sorry," Yennefer's voice booms through her thoughts and she's almost sorry she can't shake her head. "What was doesn't matter, Yennefer," she sends her tenderly in thought. "Let bygones be forgotten. What matters is not our reactions of yesterday, but our choices of today."
***
Her fingers graze her hand as she sits in bed a little later, flipping through a book. Surprised, she lifts her head, but seeing Yennefer's face, she smiles. They have drawn the curtains a little, restrained light enters the chamber. Winter comes early this year and with it a freezing wind, the smell of snow and ice. "I'll get you another blanket."
"Yennefer..." she puts in, wanting to point out to her that she has long since forgiven her her behaviour in Rinde and apart from that she is Archmistress Tissaia de Vries and could conjure up hundreds of blankets if she wanted to.
"You don't need to apologise any further, Yennefer," she declares with a sigh as the young woman stands before her again, laden with a thick, warm blanket and a tray of tea and a small box of confectionery of exactly the same type she always keeps in her desk. "How do you know...?" she starts, but Yennefer just rolls her eyes.
"Although I find it hard to believe that the great Archmistress Tissaia de Vries indulges in such worldly pleasures as chocolate..." Yennefer grins as she frowns. "... There is hardly anyone who can resist it. Not even the untouchable, almighty sorceress on her glass pedestal."
"You may be right about that, Yennefer," she admits with a smile, setting the book aside, reaching for one of the chocolate pieces before wiping her hand on the napkin Yennefer holds out to her so as not to stain her book as the chocolate melts on her tongue. She still decides to talk to Rita about it. The firmness with which Yennefer handed her the chocolate, as if she knew it was her favourite kind, even though she never told her about it... Rita must be behind this. There is no other explanation.
***
"Yennefer, that's not necessary," she explains to her in the evening with a sigh and pulls her dressing gown a little tighter around her as she walks up and down in her bedroom. The young sorceress lies serenely on her recamiere, a book in her hands. At least she's managed to take off her shoes, which is quite a concession when it comes to Yennefer. Presumably she was hoping to make her feel milder by doing so, but what's too much is too much.
"It's just a headache," she explains firmly. "I had an attack of migraine. I don't need to be examined for that, and certainly not by Triss Merigold." Poor girl! Of course, she is a trained sorceress, but she is still so young, so innocent, and is as attached to her as a child would be to its mother. Why should she worry her unnecessarily?
"But you have these headaches regularly," Yennefer tells her firmly, putting the book aside and glaring at her. There is anger in her eyes. Anger and perhaps a tiny hint of despair. "You especially, Yennefer of Vengerberg, should know exactly where my headache is coming from," she retorts. She tries her best to sound sharp, but the apologetic smile on Yennefer's lips makes it impossible for her to be too cruel with her.
"Then after nearly 50 years, it really is time, isn't it?"
"Forty-six years, Yennefer," Tissaia replies coolly, wrapping the soft, teal-blue shawl around her shoulders that Yennefer has laid out for her in case she gets cold. Forty-six years have passed since Yennefer's Ascention, during which they have not spoken a word, until that uneasy meeting in Rinde, after which Yennefer now stands before her. She still doesn't know how she managed to convince her to return to Aretuza, but apparently she did. Perhaps fate has decided that this year should be a year of miracles; first Yennefer adopts reason, now it's snowing at the end of October... it wouldn't be much of a surprise if Stregobor fell on his knees in front of her at the next Chapter meeting and confessed his undying love.
***
"Tell me if it hurts, will you?" She nods, blinking briefly as Triss raises a soft blut light into her eyes, moving it gently back and forth. Its soft and blue, flickering and she conjured it up a moment ago instead of igniting the candles right next to her bed.
"There's nothing wrong with me, Triss," she explains, trying to keep her voice as soft as possible so as not to frighten the poor child any more than Yennefer's constant nervousness already does. "It's just a mild headache. I've had migraines ever since I became Rectoress of Aretuza."
"Do you remember exactly when that was?" Triss voice is focused as she reaches out to gently stroke her head, one hand resting on the healing amulet on her high-collared, dark red dress.
"The Ides of Feainn 949," she replies , trying hard to be patient, not too unnerved, not too irritated. "I was hosting the midsummer celebrations in Aretuza at the time, after Rectoress Clara Larissa fell ill. She died..."
"It's all right, Tissaia, I didn't want to be that specific," Triss smiles at her and removes her hand from her head. "Now, could you perhaps tell me who is the acting King of Aedirn..."
"After the death of King Virfuril, King Demawend III reigns now," she returns curtly. "And if you're going through the trouble of trying to hide the fact that you're checking my memory, Triss Merigold, I'd appreciate a little more finesse."
"I'm sorry, Tissaia, I didn't mean..." The girl's voice trembles, tears well up in her eyes, but she does not retreat and that alone wrings a soft smile from Tissaia. She always knew that one day Triss would become stronger, braver. And indeed it seems to do her good to have left the walls of Aretuza, when she makes such progress after such a short time.
"It was just because of your headaches," Yennefer explains calmly. "They've been so bad the last few times..."
"How would you know, when you've only been back here for a few days, Yennefer?"
"Rita told me."
Something in Yennefer's voice changed. Something she can't make out, and doesn't want to make out, because she doesn't have the time.
"As you have discovered, Triss, there is nothing wrong with me," she explains quietly, straightening up. "Now, if I may turn back to my work."
"I still want to make sure you haven't ingested anything that's triggering the headache," Triss explains gently, holding out a small bag to her.
"Pills?" "They're made from Skellige seaweed," Triss explains to her calmly as she twirls one of the small, intense green pellets in her fingers. "They help the body to... cleanse itself. Drink a lot, rest a lot, try to take a few days to..."
"As you know I'm a busy woman, Triss," she sighs, pushing herself up from the bed. "I won't have time to rest."
***
"Maybe it's time you retired. A quieter life, a nice little house somewhere on Skellige, where the sea crashes against the rocks and the wind rustles in the trees..."
"Leaving Aretuza to you and the Conduits to die of starvation?" She lifts her gaze from the book she has been reading, to Rita, who is sitting in front of her.
"Why not? They had a long, happy life with scheduled feedings during your time as Rectoress." A broad smile is on Rita's lip, but her fingers are perpetually on the bosom of her dress, playing with the fabric as if searching for a pendant. "You are now approaching 320 years in this position..."
"Three hundred and seven, Rita," she reminds her harshly, shooting her a stern look over the top of her book. Rita had never been particularly good at history, especially when it came to dates. Further proof that she is not yet ready to succeed her as Rectoress of Aretuza. "Until I get rid of you, it's 320, Tissaia, I'm just thinking future-oriented." She can't help but smile.
"You could also continue your research projects. Remember that healing tonic after prolonged exposure to dimeritium?"
"You think I'm getting oblivious, Rita?" she sighs, lifting the book a little higher to hide the flush of red on her cheeks. How could she forget? Her most ambitious project when she was much younger and her biggest failure. "The people I could have helped are all dead," she tells her, rising from her recamiere and reaching for the scarf hanging over her desk chair. "I'm going out for some fresh air!"
It is only when she has long since left her office and Rita behind that she notices that the scarf has a smell attached to it. Soothing lavender, cherry blossom, the scent Rita always uses and which has always given her security and support, mingling with her own signature smell of almond and vanilla. Solid, reliable, without being overly decadent. But another note ties in, the subtle hint of lilac and gooseberries that makes her involuntarily pull the scarf tighter around her shoulders and breathe in its scent more deeply.
***
The gardens of Aretuza, the steady sound of the sea, the salty air around her, have always calmed her. Although the weather is colder than she thought, her breath blowing little clouds into the air and only her magic providing enough warmth to make the walk somewhat bearable, she appreciates the quiet, the gentle sounds around her to think.
"Tissaia?" She winces, exhales deeply as she realises it's only Yennefer coming up behind her, wrapped in a thick black cloak, her hands hidden in matching gloves. She has forgotten that. Gloves. "Here, your hands must be freezing." She smiles wanly as Yennefer holds hers towards her, offers her arm with consummate courtesy.
"The good manners of the Court of Aedirn do seem to have had some influence on you over the last 30 years," she smiles. "Yet it seems to escape you that I am not an old woman who needs to be offered an arm to support her." A soft laugh makes her lift her gaze, Yennefer's laugh, and as she looks at her she notices that there is a hint of blush on her pale cheeks.
"A well-bred young nobleman would also offer his arm to his lady," she replies softly, lowering her eyes. "Which takes us even further from reality..." She falters as Yennefer lifts her gaze to look at her. Her lilac eyes sparkle meaningfully and all at once Tissaia understands why she has come back. "Yennefer, this can't... I... I can't..." She gives her a desperate look, trying to explain herself. "I came back for you, Tissaia," she explains quietly. "Only for you."
She flees, turning, quick footsteps making the snow crack under her feet. When she arrives at a small bridge she dares to pause for a moment, to steady her panting breath, to glance behind. She expects to see Yennefer, Yennefer coming up behind her, wanting to hold her, to explain things to her that she couldn't bear right now. But contrary to her fears, Yennefer is still standing where she was earlier, stroking the frozen blossoms on a rose bush with one hand, bringing them back to life.
***
The roses are in her chambers that evening, in a small vase beside her bed, along with a light dinner steaming away on the table. Vegetable stew, some bread, a carafe of water, everything neat, neatly aligned, not a speck of dirt on the perfectly laid out cutlery. Yennefer is not present. All that reminds of her is the delicate hint of lilac and gooseberries in the air and a card leaning against the tray. She carefully strokes the yellowed edges, letting her eyes roam over the fading ink, the words Yennefer wrote 50 years ago when she learned to read and write by her hand. Indistinct, crooked and ponderous, they nevertheless already hint at the elegance with which Yennefer writes today, which she adopted as soon as the Ascention freed her from her hump.
Thank you, Tissaia.
"Thank you," a voice whispers from the background and she doesn't even have to turn around to know who it belongs to. The warmth emanating from her is quite enough. Would be enough even if it weren't for the strange feeling inside her. A feeling of security, of strength, as if she was facing the uncertain future and yet knew exactly where her path was leading her. "Thank you for everything. Thank you for bringing me home."
"Anytime, Yennefer," she smiles softly and raises her hand to make a second dish appear on the small table.
***
"Maybe Rita is right," Yennefer murmurs the next evening as she paces up and down her room.
"About what? That I should retire to some hut and work on a research project purely for pleasure? Because it's not much more than that, Yennefer." She fetched the papers from her sealed room in the library to give to Keira Metz and Triss. Whatever strange peace may have settled over the kingdom of Temeria that allows the two of them to conduct such unnecessary research is beyond her, but perhaps they will find the salvation of the world they apparently hope to gain from their papers. That alone would not be a problem. The problem is Stregobor alone, whom she has caught trying to break the magical seal that makes the room accessible to her and her alone.
"He speaks of magical artefacts stored there that would be lost forever," Tissaia rolls her eyes in annoyance and plucks the wine goblet from one of the tables, but does not bother to drink from it. Instead, she just cradles it in her hand, watching, eyeing the dark red liquid sloshing back and forth. "Most of all, they are my ancient magical artefacts. If he wants any, let him go to a mine full of ghouls and lie motionless and covered in mud in a hollow for a day and a half before he's accumulated enough chaos to destroy them all at once."
"That sounds... remarkable," Yennefer murmurs. "I'd love to travel with you," she adds in a whisper. Longing lies to the lilac eyes she has set far into the distance. Out the window into the darkness of the rushing sea that surrounds Aretuza. "You have been out of the service of the Kingdom of Aedirn for over fifteen years, Yennefer, been on the run from the Brotherhood all this time, and you mean to tell me that you have not used that time to travel?"
"Never with you."
***
Yennefer wraps her arms around her as they stand far from the celebration in the wintry field, far away from Aretuza, shrouded in complete darkness. "I don't know when it started, Tissaia"; she explains gently, whilst she is still listening to the music, going over the steps of the dance with Yennefer in her mind. Everything was messy and had one of her adepts delivered such a performance in dance and courtly behaviour, she would have been better off praying for the mercy of the gods. But in its own way it was perfect. Just as this embrace is perfect, the silence, the shining stars above them. Even the chill in the air, which cannot compete the warmth emanating from Yennefer. Yennefer, who literally seems to be glowing, has been radiating all evening, whenever she has grasped her hand. It felt so right. So familiar.
They haven't seen each other for over 30 years and when they parted they were teacher and student, she was furious and Yennefer despised her.
"What has changed, Yennefer?" she asks, brushing the snow off a fallen tree trunk to sit down. "What has changed?"
"Perhaps I have matured?" Yennefer's soft, warm, velvety laugh rings out in the darkness, her eyes twinkling with the stars. "Maybe it took me a few decades of searching for something that could never make me happy to see that what makes me happy was right in front of me."
"Not a baby anymore?" She expects to feel a twinge in Yennefer's chest, the pain of a fresh wound being ripped open again. But Yennefer just shakes her head, as if it has been healing for years.
"I have something else to live for now," she whispers, so hushed that the softest breath of wind could tear her voice apart. She might dismiss it as imagination, were it not for the tiny white clouds rising from Yennefer's reddened lips.
"I love you, Tissaia," she adds after a few seconds in which Tissaia could do nothing but stare at her, thinking of all the signs she could have seen, should have seen, interpreted. The ones she had interpreted and done nothing against it, perhaps because deep down she had always known it was true.
***
"I don't know when it started," Yennefer repeants the next evening as she holds her in her arms, gently stroking her wet hair. They bathe together, the whole room filled with the pleasantly intoxicating smell of essential oils, almond, vanilla, lilac. She sucks the scent into her lungs and it feels like warm honey slowly flowing through her entire body. Like peace. Relaxation. It can calm the gentle pressure in her head, help her thoughts flow freely, send Yennefer the sweetest images of the most beautiful moments. Her furiously twinkling eyes on the day she first saw her and refused to come with her. The trembling of her eyelids as she laid on her bed, bloody bandages around her wrists, and Tissaia realised with sweat pouring down her face and her hands aching that she was going to live. The brief moment of unbearable fear as the lightning bolt struck Yennefer's body, which within seconds, turned into the all-surpassing joy that she was still alive.
"I threw the lightning at you back then," Yennefer reminds her chuckling, wrapping her arms tighter around her, beginning to carefully slide her lips over her neck without actually kissing her.
"At least you were alive."
She closes her eyes and nestles into the warmth radiating from Yennefer, the touch of lips against her neck. The memory of the image in the mirror she saw when Yennefer was supposed to be imagining the most powerful woman in the world. Blue eyes, dark hair in a stern hairdo, a black dress billowed around a delicate body.
"I could never have thought of anyone else," Yennefer breathed softly into her neck, against her throat, along her jaw. "Who is more powerful than the woman who stirs such feelings in me, Tissaia? Who is more powerful than you?"
She falls silent to move, a soft splash, then Yennefer's arms wrap around her waist, pulling her far enough out of the water to breathe a kiss on the corner of her mouth. Not on the lips, but near enough that Tissaia closes her eyes. The night of her Ascention Ball. The last time they saw each other, until Rinde.
"You were beautiful, Yennefer," she whispers to her in her mind. Was it that moment? The speechlessness that gripped her when the door opened and Yennefer appeared, in her black dress with the obsidian pendant around her neck, in all her power, all her strength, the radiance given by, of all things, contempt for the Chapter, for her. "You were stunning."
"And to whom do I owe that?" She strokes the band around her neck. The small, black sparkling star surrounded by tiny, glowing diamonds. "I've always worn it," she whispers, kissing along her cheek to her ear. "Always, ever since I realised you gave it to me. That you wanted me to have it..."
"I wanted it to always show you how powerful you are, Yennefer," Tissaia explains, turning in her arms so that they are facing each other. She lies on top of Yennefer, but the water takes the weight off her, makes her float. "That you know that one day the moment will come when your chaos unleashes its true potential. When you realise that this ridiculous glass bottle was only the beginning and your chaos will explode with a strength that no one would have ever suspected in you. No one during all the years on the pig farm in Vengerberg" She breathes a kiss on her forehead. "No one during all those years in Aretuza," another between her eyes. "No one who saw you at Aedirn's court." Her lips touch the tip of Yennefer's nose. "And no one..."
"But you," Yennefer interrupts her gently, making her pause, lips half lowered to hers. "You saw it, you believed in me." "Yes," she replies, watching Yennefer's lips tremble under her breath, opening carefully in anticipation of what lies ahead. "Yes, I believed in you, all these years, against all reason, because..." She falters. The words seem strange, preordained, as if she has said them countless times before without ever having uttered them. As if everything they do has already been preordained all their lives, this moment just the product of a series of decisions already made for them even before they were put in front of her.
"Because?" A soft smile slides onto Yennefer's lips, love radiating from her eyes.
"Because I love you," Tissaia breathes softly before pressing her lips to Yennefer's.
The kiss is just like the words she speaks. Familiar. It feels like she is coming home, to a place she has been countless times before, in her thoughts, in her dreams. And yet she thought it would be different. A real kiss, a kiss after a real 'I love you', shouldn't it feel different?
But it is warm and pleasant, taking away for a moment all the restlessness that had gripped her body, the fear, the tension, the dread of sleep leading her towards a morning that had so often made her realise that all that she felt, Yennefer's kisses, the tender touches on her skin, were nothing more than figments of her imagination, illusions.
"Please don't leave again," she breathes, as soon as their lips part again. "Over forty years I hear nothing from you and then you come and say..."
"I promise," Yennefer declares to her softly, beginning to press tender kisses on her neck, on her cleavage, her collarbones. "I promise I won't leave you alone, Tissaia, I swear it." She nods in silence, blinking the tears from her eyes. With all her heart, she would gladly believe it. But Yennefer's voice trembles and she is sure it's tears falling on her skin, not warm, fragrant droplets of water.
***
"I want you to stay"; she breathes as they sit together on the bed, so close that Yennefer presses herself against her side. In her hand is a purple rose of remembrance, bloomed the moment Yennefer handed it to her, beauty bursting with strength, an everlasting monument to this evening and all the lovely grace it has brought. "And it's not too soon for you? Not too quick?" Yennefer grins, tugging at the towel she has wrapped around herself, an attempt to give her at least some semblance of decency and morality as desire shines from her eyes. They gleam as darkly as the opened petals in her hand.
"I have waited 40 years, Yennefer," Tissaia murmurs softly into those eyes, against the lips hovering just above hers. "Please don't make me wait any longer."
***
It is beauty, trust, love. It is the most radiant moment in her life and as she opens her tired eyes, Yennefer's sleeping body pressed against her, staring at the rose, she prays that she can think of this moment every time she looks at it. To always remember how blessed and safe she felt.
***
"Yennefer?" She can only whimper as the pain returns, the dreadful sensation as if her brain is cramping, something pulling it together, causing tiny eruptions in her head that set her brain twists on fire. "Yennefer!" She screams. Tears spill from her eyes, but she can't help it, she can't hold them back. When she opens her eyes, all-encompassing blackness stares back at her, with only an occasional burst of lightning flashing through it, illuminating the darkness, but too short, too brief for her to realise what is happening around her. "Yennefer," she groans out in pain, reaching for the hand still in hers, holding it tight, as tight as she can, hoping it might do something about the pain. It can't. Instead she hears voices, blurry voices that come together in a whirl in her head.
"Yenna; I can't do this..."
"You must, you have her notes..."
"But they're old and..."
"There's nothing we can do..."
"Please!"
"Yennefer," she breathes, feeling the hand close tighter around hers, gently stroking her wrist. "I'm here, Tissaia. I am here." A soft voice, familiar, gentle, full of love. So she clings to her as best she can as the pain returns, closing her hands around her, pulling her close, breaking her, crushing her to dust, finally feeling it trickle through her hands as she falls, further and further, until she is alone. Cold and helpless, trapped in the eternal darkness of her own mind.
***
It starts with pain. An excruciating headache that makes her head feel as if it's going to break apart, a slight twinge, as if someone's trying to puncture individual parts of her brain with a needle....She moans out. Tears stand in her eyes, but she can hold them back. She is Tissaia de Vries. She has survived worse. She mustn't cry!
"It's all right, Tissaia. You can cry. I know how much it hurts."
The voice comes to her as through a thick fog. A fog that lifts as the headache subsides. Cautiously she opens her eyes, looks into a darkened room, carefully illuminated by candlelight. Next to her bed sits a young woman with lilac eyes reflecting the light of the flames, a strand of her glossy black hair wrapped nervously around one finger. Slowly her gaze wanders on to another figure she sees in the background.
"Rita?" Her friend turns to her, hurrying towards her. Within seconds she is sitting on her bed, reaching for her hand. "Tissaia, how..."
"Tissaia?" The young woman with the black hair and lilac eyes looks at her. They are beautiful eyes. Impressive eyes. Eyes she would remember after seeing them for the first time.
"Rita?" she feels her friend's hand close tighter around hers. In the corner of her eye she can make out her shaking her head, as if she is trying to say something to the woman beside her bed. And she seems to understand, for tears well up in her eyes. Slowly she rises from the chair, trying to keep her composure, trying not to let on what is going on inside her.
"Who was that, Rita?" she asks quietly when the strange woman has crossed half the room. "I don't know her. Who is she?"
***
"Maybe it's time you retired. A quieter life, a nice little house somewhere on Skellige, with the sea against the rocks and the wind rustling in the trees..." Rita's voice is soft next to her ear, her thumb drawing little circles on the back of her hand, probably meant to reassure her, but Tissaia's attention is on the voices that ring out from the adjoining room. Loud voices, desperate voices, even if she only catches snatches of them.
"What have you done?"
"Yenna, calm down, we were just..."
"You wanted it, Yenna! You said..."
"I thought it would help her..."
"We couldn't know..."
"It was a month! Sometimes two, but we could manage that. The last time we were a few months after Rinde! What you did took 50 years away! She doesn't even recognise me anymore! And all because of a fucking..."
"You might as well get on with your research projects. Remember that healing tonic after prolonged exposure to dimeritium?"
She winces when she hears the word, closes her fingers carefully around the stem of the rose she has been holding for some time. It was simply lying beside her bed, a rose of remembrance bloomed to perfection, strong and beautiful with rich purple petals.
"You mean you want me to advance my research on a peripheral issue, Rita?" She purses her lips in exasperation. Dimeritium is not and never has been a danger, except to those who worked with it. The project was nothing more than a minor pastime. "And besides, the Chapter wouldn't approve," she tells Rita firmly. "And why should I mess with the Chapter for something that does no one any good except..."
A scream. A bloodcurdling scream from the next room that makes her flinch, the sound of a vase breaking.
"What happened to them?" she turns to Rita uncertainly, but her friend only smiles. "They have a friend who was exposed to dimeritium,'" she explains gently.
"That's why you're asking me to progress my research? Tell them to drain the metal and hope for the best, that's all that can be done."
"They tried that, Tissaia," Rita answer, beginning to stroke her hand again. "But it got embedded in her brain."
"Poor girl." She raises a hand to wipe a tear from her eye. Usually she has no sympathy for those who suffer from their own negligence, but what Dimeritium does to the mind...
"It is beautiful, isn't it? Yennefer brought it for you." Tissaia nods, lost in thought. "Aren't they supposed to awaken a memory?"
"Would you like to try?" She closes her fingers tighter around the stem, even as she feels thorns digging into her hand.
"But how, Rita?" she asks in a whisper. "How should I have anything to remember when I've just seen that woman for the first time?"
***
"Rita?" They stare at her as she enters the room, passes them wordlessly and sets about picking up the roses of remembrance from the floor. A fortune in flowers, scattered on the floor, for even in their everlasting bloom, to Yennefer, they have lost all their worth a long time ago, a little bit more every week that comes and passes.
72 roses, blooming purple, a sign of eternal, everlasting love.
72 weeks since Sodden, during which Yennefer has asked her the same question every time she has entered this room.
"Has she remembered anything, Rita? Can she...?"
She lifts her eyes to Yennefer's and feels tears welling in her own. She is sorry. Every week, she's sorry when she looks at her and has to tell her what Yennefer already knows, even though she doesn't want to admit it. This time, she doesn't say it.
She stares at the flowers, the flowers that trigger nothing in Tissaia, no memory, nothing that could give them meaning.
"Sometimes," she brings out in a hoarse voice, watching tears well up in Triss's eyes, watching Keira turn away, watching Yennefer stare at her with a look more panicked and hopeless than anything she has ever seen in her life. They all know how the sentence ends. They know it and they dread it because it means that one of the few sparks of hope they had has been extinguished once and for all. "I guess sometimes a flower is just a flower after all," she mumbles, setting the roses down on Tissaia's desk - her desk - and proceeds to pick up the shards of the vase.
There is nothing else she can do.