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Chapter Text

Tissaia.

Darkness. A breath, followed by a debilitating pain in her lungs. On instinct, her chaos rushes to mend it - only to fuel the pain to new heights as the dimeritium greedily laps it up.

She clenches her eyes as she waits for the brunt of it to pass, the events of the past day returning in a rush.

Nilfgaard. Fringilla. Dimeritium.

Tissaia, I need you.

The words cleave through the haze of pain like a guillotine. Yennefer's voice is one of desperation, her words unlike any Tissaia has ever thought to hear from she who had been her best student.

She opens her eyes to more darkness.

Panic swells as she realizes how long she's been out, her body locked in a battle with the dimeritium, but Tissaia smothers it before it can take root. The metal has not managed to enter her bloodstream, as evidenced by her continued state of living. That means it's only a matter of time before her body combats it. Fringilla has either severely underestimated the amount of dimeritium needed to be lethal against a sorcerer of Tissaia's caliber - or the intent had never been to kill her.

However, time is of as limited supply as her chaos.

She grits her teeth, unable to stop a pained gasp as she pulls herself up. She doesn't respond to Yennefer, as much as it pains her not to, doesn't portal back to the frontlines. She needs to conserve every last drop of her chaos if she's to be of help to anyone in her current state.

With slow, measured steps, Tissaia follows the sound of battle.

—

“You're alive!"

Yennefer's voice, no longer a projection in her head, sends a wave of relief crashing over her. Her control, already so brittle, wavers, snaps, and the barrier Tissaia has been maintaining flickers out of existence.

"Yennefer."

The world spins on its axis as she turns to face her, the dimeritium in her lungs whisked into a frenzy from her continued use of chaos. The cacophony of it is almost deafening now that she's no longer single-mindedly focusing on keeping the Nilfgaardian reinforcements at bay.

Yennefer stands some distance away, clutching her stomach. The middle of her dress is stained dark with blood. The look on her face is one of defeat, and it tears at Tissaia's heart, the memory of their shared smile from the night before still fresh in her mind.

She blinks, fighting to stay conscious, and then Yennefer is in front of her, hands gripping hers with bruising force, pleading for her help. Tissaia wants to laugh, to cry, to scream. All those years, what she wouldn't have given to be allowed to help. Leave it to Yennefer to only come to her for help when she is incapable of giving it.

Her knees buckle, and Tissaia sinks to the ground then, finally losing the battle to stay upright. There is fear in Yennefer's eyes as she lowers herself to the ground with her, despite her protestations that the Northern Kingdoms are close.

Tissaia lets the last reserves of her chaos filter through their clasped hands, seeking out the wound in Yennefer's stomach and sealing it shut. For all her power, this is the only help she can offer the other woman in her current state. In all her many years, Tissaia cannot recall having ever felt so completely and utterly drained. The absence of her chaos leaves a hollow feeling in her chest - it frightens her more than Nilfgaard's approaching army.

"You saved me," Yennefer's voice is strangled, and Tissaia knows she's not talking about her newly healed wound. "I won't ever forget that."

Tissaia swallows. Shakes her head. Tries not to linger on the shard of guilt that finally, finally dislodges itself from her heart at hearing those words. For all the times she's told Yennefer as much, some small seed of doubt had planted itself over the years at the girl's relentless pursuit to cure to her infertility, at the accusations that Tissaia had taken away her choice.

"It's your turn," she tells Yennefer, and curses herself for the necessity of her words. With the barrier gone, it's only a matter of time before they are overrun. She needs to push Yennefer one last time. "To save these people, this Continent. This is your legacy."

"How? I can't!"

Tissaia wants to grab Yennefer by her shoulders and shake her. Stubborn, prideful, willful girl, so unaware of her own potential. How can someone so powerful still doubt themself so? Not for the first time, Tissaia wonders if this is another one of her failings where Yennefer is concerned. If their adversarial relationship has done more harm than good over the decades.

"You can," she insists, blue eyes locking with violet. "Everything you've ever felt, everything you've buried-"

With some effort, she lifts a gloved hand to Yennefer's face. Lines of scarlet trace the downward slope of her cheeks, her chin - the tell-tale sign of chaos overuse. And yet, the spark of Yennefer's chaos still burns as bright as ever. Tissaia let's her lips curve upward in a proud smile.

"Forget the bottle. Let your chaos explode."

Yennefer closes her eyes, one of her hands coming up to grip Tissaia's arm weakly. They meet in the middle, resting their heads against one another. Tissaia's smile widens at the closeness, despite its bittersweet nature. They both know what she's asking.

The younger mage keeps hold of her hands as she gets up, only letting go when distance forces her to. The pads of her fingertips drag against the skin of Tissaia's left wrist in parting. Tissaia let's out a shaky breath at the tenderness of the gesture. It feels like a goodbye.

She watches as Yennefer makes her way onto a nearby rock formation, hands raised before her. In the distance, the fires ravaging the ruins of the keep die out. The air is saturated with Yennefer's gathering chaos, volatile but restrained - the quiet before the storm.

The fighting continues around them, closer now. Tissaia stands, keeping her eyes trained on Yennefer. The younger sorceress is dirtied and bloodied, her expression one of grim determination. She has never looked more beautiful, more alive, than she does in that moment, her chaos flaring so bright that Tissaia struggles to feel the absence of her own.

Lilac eyes seek out blue one last time.

Then the chaos erupts from her hands in a sea of flame.

The battlefield fills with screams. Tissaia raises her arms to shield her face on reflex, despite knowing the futility of the gesture. Fire is the most volatile of the elements, impossible to control. Although she is prepared to die, had known it was inevitable when she asked Yennefer to let go of her emotions, the acceptance does not dull the dread of burning alive.

Yennefer's chaos sweep over her like a tidal wave, and the force of it sends Tissaia to her knees. The night air is heavy with smoke and the smell of burning flesh, screams of the dying echoing despite the open field. And yet-

Tissaia lowers her arms when she realizes the flames part around as if guided by unseen hands - Yennefer's hands. She looks up in wonder at the sorcerer in question, throat tight with emotion. Clever, wonderful, headstrong girl, always defying the laws of chaos.

Above her, Yennefer's scream mixes with those of their enemies.

—

When the fire dies down, Tissaia rises from her crouched position. The circular patch of grass beneath her feet is a stark contrast to the scorched earth that stretches down the hill as far as the eye can see. Her eyes immediately search for the slight figure previously stood atop the rock, but the spot is now vacant.

Tendrils of dread grip her heart like a vice. Fire is known to devour not only its enemies, but its wielder as well. Her eyes sting, from smoke, and the realization that Yennefer may have burned out her life force with the expenditure of such a large quantity of chaos.

At the top of the hill, King Foltest and his army arrives.

They've successfully held back the Nilfgaardian army. Yet, as Tissaia stares at the spot where Yennefer had stood just moments before, alight with unbridled chaos, it does not feel like a victory.

—

Elsewhere, a blonde girl wakes drenched in sweat, dual screams of Yennefer still ringing in her ears.

Chapter Text

Yennefer does not remember closing her eyes, but she must have, for when she opens them again, she is no longer on the scorched hillside at Sodden. The world is blurry at first, sound and colours muted as if underwater. Her head aches with the screams of the dying, the smell of burnt flesh clinging to her clothes and hair like a terrible perfume. She represses a shudder.

"She's awake."

The words are muffled, an unknown face peering at hers from a short distance away. When it is replaced with the grim expression of Fringilla Vigo, the reality of her situation clicks into place.

Fuck.

Yennefer resists the urge to knock her head against the hard surface - a tree? - at her back. She's in enough pain already; her limbs feel leaden, and her head pounds as if she's just woken from a week of delirium and drink. But her bodily aches are nothing compared to the terrible feeling of emptiness, of absence, that simmers just below her skin where her chaos should be.

Terror seizes her heart like a fist, squeezing the air from her lungs.

She tries to tell herself it's merely the result of having thoroughly drained her reserves, but deep down Yennefer knows. Her chaos is gone, at Tissaia's behest, consumed by the flames as wholly as the countless causalities on that godsforsaken hill.

Yennefer finds herself wishing she herself had perished in the flames.

"You still have so much left to give."

Unbidden, Tissaia's words from the previous night spring to mind, along with the indecipherable look and swift retreat that followed them. While there may have been a grain of truth in her words then, that certainly is no longer the case. She's a sorceress without magic. Yennefer can think of no greater disappointment.

At least she has served her purpose, doing what Tissaia requested of her for once. She cannot help the bitterness the thought leaves on her tongue.

Yennefer has always known she would give the older woman everything if asked. Mercifully, Tissaia has always been too proud a creature to ask for anything, yet Yennefer had kept her distance all the same, preferring to control and limit their interactions as much as possible.

Yet here she is, captured by the enemy and without her magic, the one constant in her life that has always served as a source of comfort and strength. All because Tissaia de Vries had said please.

Double fuck.

—

Gloating at Fringilla gives her some small measure of comfort, of control.

The dark-skinned woman seems blissfully unaware of Yennefer's lack of chaos, as evidenced by the dimeritium handcuffs clasped around her wrists. They feel as any other pair of handcuffs to her now; the only positive thing that has come of her losing her magic. Let Fringilla and the Nilfgaardians think her unfazed, and cower at the thought of her indifference.

Learning that they are on the run, limping back to Nilfgaard with their tails between their legs, is a cold comfort against the lack of chaos in her veins, but Yennefer clings to it like a lifeline. She's done at least one thing right in her pitiful excuse of a life, even if it has cost her everything she's ever fought to gain.

The fact that her former schoolmate intends to offer her up as a sacrifice to Nilfgaard's emperor as an apology for losing the battle is the icing on the cake. Yennefer has never been good at mending things, the volatility of her emotions often resulting in a worsening of the situation rather than an improvement, yet here she is; a bloody mea culpa offered up as penance for Fringilla's fuck-up.

Yennefer grins, a touch of madness clinging to the corners of her smile. Either it's the futility of her situation finally sinking in, or the irony of knowing her life will be used to do achieve something she herself never could.

Beside her, the other sorceress looks unsettled, and Yennefer's smile widens.

—

They march through the rest of the night, and Yennefer finds herself grateful to Tissaia for having mended the stab wound gifted to her by Sabrina. Though their pace is far from frantic, they do not stop to rest again for a long time, and Yennefer has little doubt that neither Fringilla nor her soldiers would have spared any thought for her injuries.

Though she had despaired at surviving the battle, Yennefer's stubbornness bid her attempt to convince Fringilla of the futility of her actions and return with her. The other woman mocks her for it, revealing an undercurrent of scorn for the Brotherhood and its machinations that rivals even Yennefer's own.

"We weren't forced to do anything."

Yennefer blinks at her own words, at the truth in them. Somehow she's ended up defending the institution she's spent all her life rebelling against. Yet for all her resentment of the organization and the role she had been expected to play in their schemes, Yennefer knows it was her own choice to stay in exchange for the power they offered her. And once she'd had enough of their games, she left. With the exception of that one visit in Rinde, Tissaia and the Brotherhood had left her to her own devices since.

"Perhaps if I'd had Tissaia to shield me-"

Yennefer seethes at the notion. Fringilla seems to share Stregobor's notion that she's Tissaia's prized favourite, as if the woman has not spent the better part of sixty years ignoring her existence. Not for the first time, Yennefer finds herself ruing the fact that everyone except for the infernal woman herself seems hellbent on telling her just how much Tissaia cares.

She has paved her own way forward in life, fighting for every scrap ever thrown her way. No one has ever given her anything that she did not wrench from their hands first. She does not need Tissaia - or anyone else for that matter - to shield her or what little joy she was managed to wrest from life's hands.

They exchange a few more barbs before silence descends on them once more. The moon hangs high above them, round and full, casting an eerie glow on the forest around them. The atmosphere is tense. Yennefer catches grim, angry looks exchanged between the soldiers.

Fringilla intends for them to reach Cintra by dawn, but it's clear the soldiers don't share her belief in salvation. They are considering turning on the sorceress that would be their leader, Yennefer knows. She does not need her magic to know the hearts of desperate men with nothing left to lose.

She draws a breath, preparing to once more proposition Fringilla to turn around. She has no great desire to be offered up as a sacrifice to save Fringilla's traitorous neck. In all her years, Yennefer has never been willing to risk her life for that of another, and she certainly is not about to start now.

She forces down the memory of a slight form huddled in a sea of fire, and the sheer, punishing effort required to part the flames around her, lest they devour her along with the rest of the battlefield.

Then the night erupts in screams once more.

—

She's waiting.

The room is cast in a warm, comforting glow originating from a sconce on the wall. A big oaken desk sits in the center, vacant.

The sound of a door opening turns her head.

Tissaia.

She rushes toward her, feeling suddenly anxious. Tissaia catches her, arms steady around her trembling form.

"The vote passed. You can stay."

The words wash over her like the breaking tide, carrying with it relief and the promise of safety. Yennefer buries her head in the smaller woman's hair, the scent of her perfume mixing with the salty tang of the ocean air surrounding Aretuza.

What a beautiful dream.

She flinches at the voice that is not her own.

Tissaia crumbles in her arms, gasping for air. The smell of ash and smoke cling to her hair, mixing with something else, something metallic - dimeritium.

Yennefer reaches for her, only to pull back with a scream when fire, dripping with the signature of her own volatile chaos, envelops the other woman.

In the doorway, a figure cloaked in red watches, face cast in shadow beneath the hood.

—

She comes to with a start, head pounding worse than the last time she woke. There's the tell-tale bumps of a carriage in motion beneath her, beams of sunlight filtering through the wood overhead. Beside her, Fringilla whimpers pitifully, evidently caught in the clutches of her own nightmare.

Yennefer shoves the other woman unsympathetically, hoping it'll shut her up, only to find them chained together. The bumpy road beneath the wheels of the carriage is wreaking enough havoc on her head without the added noise.

Next to her, Fringilla confirms that the carriage is moving away from Cintra, then starts mumbling about being saved. Yennefer suspects they have very different ideas of what it means to be saved, something she makes no attempt at hiding when they inevitably return to snapping at one another.

"Not you though. Tissaia won't save you this time."

The memory of Tissaia's crumpled form in her dream, suffused with the smell of dimeritium, comes to her unbidden. Tendrils of dread unfurl in her chest like black smoke from a funeral pyre.

Fringilla smiles at her silence, happy to have finally found something to prod at, a malevolent glint in her eyes as she reveals her hand in poisoning Tissaia with dimeritium. Her voice sounds proud as she speaks of her idea to crush the metal, making it breathable.

Hearing a mage, of all people, gloat about turning an already harmful substance for their kind even more deadly sets Yennefer's blood to boil, yet it is nothing compared to the thought of Tissaia dying from breathing it in. She recalls the sound of the woman's labored breathing the previous night, how weak the source of her chaos had felt, its vastness normally rivalling that of the ocean.

The sound of the carriage fades as unbridled rage fills her chest. Yennefer may not have her magic, but she has her hands still, and they are more than sufficient to express her fury. Only the opening of the carriage door stops her from assaulting the spineless excuse of a woman in front of her.

The elves march them to the center of their camp, past scores of angry elves eyeing them with thinly veiled hatred. In the distance stands a ruin eerily similar to Aretuza, towering over camp and forest alike.

It reminds her of her nightmare, and Yennefer wonders what part of her mind decided to dream of not only Tissaia, but Aretuza as well. Neither have ever given her any great amount of comfort, yet the dream had been suffused with a sense of calm and safety so unlike the real thing.

She decides to chalk it up to the shock of seeing the indomitable Tissaia in such a weakened state. The urge to strangle Fringilla in an entirely not fun way resurfaces, and Yennefer's fingers twitch with the effort of resisting. Somehow, she doubts it would paint her in a favourable light to their new captors, however little love they may hold for Nilfgaard.

They're taken to a tent in the middle of the camp, housing only a single occupant; an elven woman clad in a robe the colour of dark pine, her long hair flowing down her back in a waterfall of red. At a wave of her hand, Fringilla falls to the floor unconscious, her desperate attempt at bargaining swiftly cut off. Had it not been for the disdainful look thrown her way immediately afterwards, Yennefer may have thanked the woman.

She is clearly a sorceress. So much for elven mages being extinct. Yet another lie taught to her at Aretuza. It's hard to be mad at Tissaia while fearing for her life, however, so Yennefer focuses her attention on the conversation being held in front of her. No effort is made to keep her from overhearing their words, though Yennefer can't tell if it's because they consider her inconsequential, or if they simply don't expect her to understand their language.

When the elven sorceress mentions dreaming of a white-robed figure to the man - Filavandrel - who had led them there, Yennefer feels her headache return tenfold. Shared dreams are powerful omens, and if Fringilla's nightmare is any clue, the three of them have all had the same uninvited visitor.

Triple fuck.

Chapter Text

The morning sun does little to improve the view of the battlefield. Its rays struggle past columns of smoke rising from still smoldering fires, illuminating the charred remains scattered across the scorched hillside. The destruction wrought by Yennefer's chaos is staggering, reaching all the way to the tree line at the bottom of the hill and then some.

Tissaia stands on shaky legs, moving between the corpses littering the ground as if in a trance. Her hand lands on a charred chest plate, and another memory of a gruesome death zips past her eyelids in vivid detail. She shudders as the vision is cut short, a sword severing the head of the person whose last memories she's trawling through.

"You won't find her in your visions. She's gone."

Vilgefortz blocks her path to the next corpse, a look that borderlines on pity in his eyes. Tissaia doesn't reply, merely stares back at the man that has crowned himself their military leader, willing him to move out of her way. Someone has to have seen her, and Tissaia will find them - and then, finally, she will find Yennefer.

With a sigh, Vilgefortz step aside. Tissaia watches dispassionately as the man walks amongst the fallen, putting the few surviving Nilfgaardian soldiers to the sword. It seems a lifetime ago that they were sat under the stars, sharing tales over mugs of ale. Yennefer's fatalistic outlook had proven true after all.

Grief and guilt claw at her heart in equal measure. Yennefer had proclaimed herself ready to die, believing that life had nothing more to give, and in the end, Tissaia had asked her to lay down her life - all for the greater good.

She feels a scream well in her throat. She doesn't stop it.

Yennefer's name fall from her lips again and again, even as her voice grows hoarse from shouting. She knows there is little use in it, but it is a safer outlet than anything involving her chaos, and so Tissaia allows her emotions to surface, if only this once - better they burn her throat than consume her mind.

"Yennefer!"

A man's voice mirrors her own from close by, and Tissaia pauses in shock. Further down the hill stands a tall, white-haired man holding the reins of a brown gelding, a young girl seated atop the saddle and staring at the carnage surrounding her. The pair make for an odd sight amongst the smoke-shrouded battlefield.

"Where is she?"

Yellow eyes fixate on her as the man draws near, marking him as a witcher. He stops a few feet away, gaze boring into her own with an intensity matching the grief in Tissaia's own heart. She's heard the whispers, of course, of a witcher accompanied by a sorceress with raven hair and violet eyes.

"And who are you to her exactly?"

The words claw their way from her throat, tinged by something she does not care to put into words. This man cannot hope to know Yennefer like she does; whatever brief time they've had together is a mere drop in the ocean that is the long span of a sorcerer's life.

The witcher does not deign to answer, instead asking whether or not Yennefer is alive. There is hope in the timbre of his voice, feeble and faint. Tissaia can see the exact moment it flickers and dies as he observes the way her lips tremble, the silence stretching uncomfortably between them.

She tells him of Yennefer's sacrifice then, and the words taste like ash on her tongue. She cannot bring herself to respond when the witcher, eyes accusatory as if he knows, asks her if it was worth it, because no, nothing is worth this, of knowing she has been the one to ask Yennefer to surrender her very life force for a cause she does not believe in.

The witcher does not wait for a response, and there is anger in his limping gait as he returns to the girl atop the horse. The two of them depart, soon lost once more between the columns of smoke. Tissaia stands rooted to the spot, the words was it worth it thrashing wildly against the confines of her ribcage, chest hollow.

Her legs feel stiff as she moves towards the next corpse, not knowing what else to do with herself. Pausing in her efforts will mean entertaining the notion that Yennefer is well and truly gone, and it is not a thought she can bear.

The sun hangs high in the sky by the time she makes it to what must have been the frontlines of last night's battle. More than a score of Nilfgaardian soldiers lay splayed on the ground in various poses, each accompanied by a pool of still bright blood. At the epicenter of it all is a young man leaned against a rock formation, red robes marking him as a sorcerer of Ban Ard. Though the boy had evidently lost in the end, he had taken a significant number of soldiers with him before succumbing to his injuries, and Tissaia feels a measure of pride at the knowledge despite not having taught the boy herself.

A frown settles on her face as she draws close, and it becomes painfully clear that the boy did not die as a result of his wounds, but rather met a brutal end beneath the blow of the bloodied mace discarded beside him. His skull is crushed as if from repeated blows, features unrecognizable as what little flesh remains hang on in ruined tatters.

Tissaia kneels on the forest floor next to the body, dirt and blood staining her dress. She's so very tired, her chaos still weakened from her recent exposure to dimeritium, and the gory sight sets her stomach roiling. She has no desire to relive yet another gory death. And yet-

Just one more, she tells herself.

She steels herself as she dives into the memory, willing her nerves to settle as she watches soldiers drop like flies in front of her eyes, each drop preceded by a red spray as their blood vessels rupture within them. It is a spell meant to overload the body with sheer pressure, inelegant but deadly in its effectiveness. Then the boy sinks down against the rock at his back, drained of chaos and blood alike, and Tissaia tenses, knowing there is more yet to come.

Dread fills her throat as she watches a familiar face appear amongst the trees, lips not her own struggling to vocalize his name, to beg for help. The dread turns to terror as Vilgefortz come to a stop in front of her - the boy, not her - and, instead of healing him, launches the nearby mace into his hand and swings.

Tissaia exits the memory just as the mace is about to make contact, falling backwards onto the forest floor with a gasp. Tremors course through her body at the implications of what she's just witnessed.

The boy had not been so far gone as to warrant a mercy killing; as if being bludgeoned to death could ever be called such. Vilgefortz has murdered one of their own in cold blood, and the knowledge settles in her stomach like a stone. At best he had seen a chance to settle some petty, personal grudge with a man barely into adulthood. At worst, he's allied with Nilfgaard.

Tissaia lets the possibility of the latter light a fire of anger in her chest. It serves as a welcome distraction, burning away the hollowness of her grief. Vilgefortz has been amongst those most vocal about opposing Nilfgaard, and the first to suggest they take to the battlefield. If he has truly allied with the enemy, then he has brought them here like lambs to the slaughter.

The faces of her fellow sorcerers flash before her mind. Coral, propped up against a tree with both arms cut off at their sockerts. Triss, her throat burned and blackened. Vanielle, her chest riddled with arrows. Tissaia lets the images stoke the fire raging in her chest into a white-hot fury. Then, she snuffs it out with ruthless efficiency, leaving only cold resolve in its wake.

She leaves the gory scene surrounding the faceless sorcerer behind, the planes of her face schooled into an expression of grim determination. Her anger simmers just below the surface, hidden, but close enough should she need to draw on it for strength again.

The battle may have been won, but the war has just begun, and the lines are drawn in shadow and deceit.

—

Tissaia tears through the upper hallways of Aretuza, its walls ringing with the screams of the wounded and the dying. She looks for a familiar head of sun-kissed skin and raven hair, but finds none that match the description. Even so, she keeps moving, lest grief and anger overtake her. A storm rages outside the walls, whisking the ocean into a frenzy mirroring that of Tissaia's own chaos which coils and snaps like a caged beast.

After having combed the battlefield for survivors, they had agreed to portal them here, to the relative safety of the heart of the Brotherhood. Vilgefortz had smiled at her return, evidently confusing her newfound resolve for acceptance, and though bile had risen in her throat at the sight, Tissaia had managed a thin smile in return.

She will have to keep a close eye on him from here on out. The Brotherhood does not deal well with corruption in its midst, as evidenced by Stregobor's continued membership. Tissaia will have to ascertain his motives on her own, and then concoct a way to rid the Continent of his presence. All this while dealing with the political fallout of getting involved in the war against Nilfgaard, and searching for Yennefer. Of the three options before her, only one holds any appeal - yet necessity and duty demand she contend with the other two.

As if summoned, Vilgefortz appear before her, face drawn and lips moving as if in prayer - or an incantation. He stops abruptly as he spots her, and for a brief moment they stand across from one another, two unmoving figures in a corridor alive with panic and pain.

"Triss! Stay with us!"

A voice rises over the din of noise, and Tissaia rushes into the adjoining room on her right which has been turned into a makeshift infirmary. She finds Triss Merigold on one of the cots, her slight form convulsing from seizures as Artorius holds her down to keep her from harming herself further. He looks up at Tissaia as she draws near.

"She was stable. I don't know what happened."

Tissaia makes her way to the head of the cot, kneeling over Triss as her hands find the girl's shoulders. Words of Elder flow from her lips and her chaos follows, pouring into the woman as Tissaia wills the seizures to subside. Healing magic requires incredible control and precision, and hers feel tenuous at best, chaos wild and unruly as it replenishes itself after battling the dimeritium her lungs.

Even before Artorius speaks, she knows it is not enough, and Tissaia curses herself for being unable to help for the second time in as many days when one of her girls need her.

Then there's a hand on one of hers, and another voice joins the chanting. Tissaia does not deign to acknowledge it, gaze locked on the face of her former pupil until the tremors finally, finally cease. Triss gasps in relief, and Tissaia lets her hand - the one not currently trapped beneath another - caress copper curls in what she hopes is a reassuring manner.

Next to her, Vilgefortz gives her a reassuring look of his own, and Tissaia feels her head spin at how convincing it is. He seems intent on turning himself into a pillar of support in the aftermath of the battle. Coupled with her knowledge of his actions during said battle, the act feels less like kindness than calculation. He is looking to manipulate her, she knows, though to what end, she cannot yet say. In the end it matters little - she is not some weak-willed damsel wilting in the face of loss and hardship.

Tissaia fights the urge to snatch her hand from underneath his, instead gracing him with a small, thankful smile. Let him believe he is succeeding. Hopefully it will embolden him into letting his actions grow careless and sloppy.

Only when he moves his hand does she get up. The movement sends her head spinning, one hand gripping the skirts of her dress and the other reaching out to one of the partitions for support. She has precious little chaos to spare, and the effort required to heal Triss leaves her dizzy with fatigue.

Tissaia lets out a series of deep breaths as her free hands transitions from gripping her skirts to rest against her stomach, feeling the air enter and leave her lungs. While her body has fought off the effects of the dimeritium, it still feels as though every breath is cut short, never quite deep enough to fill her lungs.

"What is it?" Vilgefortz demands.

Grief. Rage. Betrayal. A volatile concoction tempered only by a combination of sheer willpower and her dwindling reserves of chaos. Tissaia has always been adept at controlling her emotions, for it is the only surefire way to control chaos, and she thanks herself for this innate talent as she speaks the words she knows will placate Vilgefortz.

"There is no sign of Yennefer. She is lost for good."

Even though she does not believe them to be true, the words hurt to speak aloud. Artorius rises from Triss' bedside and joins them, and Tissaia is glad for the distraction as he steers the conversation to the topic of his niece - and their prisoner. She perks up at the mention of the Nilfgaardian, having forgotten his existence in the whirlwind of their retreat.

A soldier who orchestrated the fall of Cintra, answering only to the emperor himself. The dead may hold no answers regarding Yennefer's whereabouts, but perhaps the living will. And if not, at least she will have an outlet for her emotions under the guise of extracting valuable information about Nilfgaard's motives and movements.

"He will give us everything we need - if I can have time with him."

The words are hers, but the voice is nothing like her usual tone, dark and sinister and vengeful. Artorius looks at her with reproach, but Tissaia meets his gaze silently, his words drowned in the tempest of her chaos as it buzzes about her senses like a sentient being.

"She wasn't asking your permission."

That Vilgefortz is encouraging her proposed method of interrogation is cause for concern, yet Tissaia cannot bring herself to care in that moment. She will deal with that later. For now, her thoughts are consumed with the singular purpose of learning Yennefer's fate.

—

The door to the interrogation chamber clicks shut with a foreboding thud. The room's lone occupant sits cuffed to a stone chair in the center, face bloodied and gaze unfocused, a testament to the physical torture he has already endured. Outside, darkness has fallen over Aretuza like a mourning veil, stars hidden behind dark, ominous clouds as if the night knows of her intentions.

"Are you my inquisitor or executioner?" he asks at the sound of her approaching footsteps.

"See where the night takes us," she lets the words hang between them, a promise of pain and suffering.

There is a fanatical glint in his eyes as he speaks of cleansing and of the White Flame, challenging her to do her worst. Tissaia is happy to acquiesce, and sends him convulsing in the chair with a brief, chaos-infused touch. She does not need the man capable of speech. Unlike the previous interrogator, her methods do not require spoken words to yield results.

Away from prying eyes, she finally lets her emotions rise to the surface, and they make themselves known through the pained cries of the prisoner. Around them, the air grows heavy with chaos and suffering.

The depth of her rage and despair yawns at her like a chasm, threatening to swallow her. She rips memory after memory from the Nilfgaardian with brutal efficiency, taking care to inflict as much damage as she can with each extraction. Tissaia knows well that there is no salvation to be found in inflicting her emotions on another, but this battle has cost her dearly, and she will not suffer the cost alone.

She does not even pause to ward her ears against the volume of his screams, even as they leave her ears ringing.

And finally, finally, she sees her, with eyes that are not her own, alight with fire and chaos and - more importantly - life. As the fire dies, Yennefer wobbles once, twice, before fainting, her body falling forward before disappearing from view. The memory ends as the prisoner, whose name Tissaia now knows to be Cahir, turns at the sound of a thud behind him, only to be knocked out by the hilt of a blade.

Tissaia resurfaces from Cahir's mind with a gasp, feels the slow trickle of blood as it travels from her nostril and down her chin. She wipes it with the edge of her dirtied sleeve, distracted.

The room is silent save for her laboured breathing and the wind howling outside its walls. The light from the wall sconces flicker as a draft steals in from underneath the door. Cahir lies motionless in the stone chair, a faint rise of his chest the only indication he is still alive.

Tissaia stamps down the sudden surge of shame at the sight, a stark reminder of what they as sorcerers can become when surrendering to their emotions. Appalling as her methods may be, however, they have yielded results.

The brunt of Nilfgaard's reserves have been left in Cintra, too far away for an imminent counterattack. Cahir seems unaware of Vilgefortz' true allegiance, even if his decision to send the man hurtling down a hill rather than strike the killing blow seems at odds with his ruthless nature. And, more importantly, she has confirmation that Yennefer survived her impressive display of fire magic with her life force intact - even if it does not guarantee her survival after the act.

Armed with this new knowledge, Tissaia slips out of the interrogation chamber and makes for her own rooms. The relief coursing through her veins make the tiredness weighing down her limbs all the more noticeable.

There is a lot to be done. But first, she needs to rest and let her chaos recuperate. Gods knows there will be precious little time for it in the weeks ahead.

Chapter Text

The days pass by slowly at first. Night is heralded by another visit from the robed figure, bringing with it visions of increasing intensity. Each is shorter than the rest, the feeling of calm and safety lasting nary a moment before it's wrenched away, replaced by death and destruction and silent screams.

It's five days past their arrival in the camp when the elves finally find something in the ruins. It does not take long for the two of them to be summoned, or for the elven sorcerer to demand they share their dreams. Knowing they have nothing else to bargain with than this bit of information, Yennefer bids Francesca share hers first, and the woman does. Fringilla follows suit readily, proudly, and Yennefer resists the urge to scoff at her eagerness.

By now, Yennefer has seen Tissaia die in a number of ways, and still the figure beneath the hood has yet to reveal itself. This galls her most of all. Even more so when she learns Fringilla and Francesca have both beheld the face of their tormentor, masquerading as their savior. There is no salvation waiting for Yennefer at the end of her dreams - only fire and death. It fills her with rage to know that not even her dreams offer her the happiness she so desperately seeks, even as she prides herself on recognizing them for what they so clearly are - an attempt at manipulation.

When Filavandrel prompts her to share hers, Yennefer opts not to respond. Instead she walks closer to the altar at the center of the room. Three skeletons, tied together with straw, stands atop it, with another skeleton kneeling at its base. A forceful breath reveals the words of Elder beneath the thick layer of dust atop its surface, and questions about the nature of her dreams are blessfully forgotten.

"Behold the mother of the forest - the deathless mother, nesting in dreams."

The words are ominous, even without taking into account their shared visions. Then the ruins tremble and shake around them, and the altar moves back to reveal a staircase hidden beneath, leading down into an impenetrable darkness.

Turn your back to the forest.

The whisper crawls up from the depths. It's the same voice that had proclaimed her first dream beautiful, and Yennefer knows for a certainty that she wants nothing to do with whatever this is. She is all topped off on magical mystery, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, Francesca - blinded by her faith - orders the two of them to follow her down the darkened steps, leaving Yennefer little choice. She grabs a torch from one of their guards who, thankfully, decides not to protest her theft.

When the stairs deposit them in the middle of a forest under an unnatural night sky, so unlike the daylight above, she curses under her breath. She does not need her chaos to feel the wrongness of this place. Once more, the urge to turn around, to run, threatens to overwhelm her. Yennefer is no stranger to old magic. She has never balked at wrestling with ancient forces before - but that was before she lost her chaos. Now, she is as powerless as any other, and the knowledge leaves her painfully aware of her own mortality.

She questions Fringilla about her dreams in an attempt to distract herself from the helpless feeling in her chest, only to wish she hadn't. It is easier to hate the woman when she does not know the horrors she endured under Nilfgaard's previous emperor - the one Yennefer had been meant to counsel. No sob story will ever be enough to forgive her for using dimeritium powder as a weapon, especially not when wielded against Tissaia. Yennefer may have fantasized about knocking the woman off her tall pedestal once, but even she has standards.

Briefly, she wonders when she has stopped wanting to take Tissaia down a peg. Then she decides it doesn't matter. The brunette is so short of stature - who is Yennefer to deny her the added height? The thought helps ward off the sense of dread thickening the air around them.

A snowstorm whips to life around them suddenly, and then there's a hut in front of them - one with no doors. Whispers permeate the air, unintelligible as they press against her ear drums insistently.

"If you're wrong, if the dreams don't mean what you think-" Yennefer's last attempt at dissuading the elven sorceress are cut off as Francesca recites the incantation they found etched unto the altar in the ruins above.

In front of them, the hut rises from the ground on scaly legs, wrenching itself loose from the soil as it turns to face them like some sentient being.

—

Yennefer comes to slowly, her cheek pressed uncomfortably against a wooden floor. She does not remember leaving the forest, does not remember anything after the point of the hut turning towards them, but there is no doubt in her mind that she's inside it. Francesca's faith has doomed them.

She notes that her dimeritium cuffs are gone, for all the good it does her.

In front of her stands the figure from her dreams, its red robe the only pristine thing in the otherwise dirtied hut.

"Who are you?" Yennefer queries, tired of its presence, of the death and destruction it heralds.

At least there are no nightmares disguised as dreams this time.

And finally, the figure lets the hood of the robe fall away, revealing a foreign yet hauntingly familiar face. Its voice is similarly alien as it greets her, yet the cadence is soft and measured, and in it, Yennefer hears the echoes of a voice she longs for and fears the sound of in equal measure.

The robe finishes its descent to the floor, pooling around the feet of a young girl whose features resemble that of the woman whose death has haunted Yennefer ever since she set foot in these blasted woods. Yet her hair is a shade too dark, her eyes a touch too wide, the sharpness of her cheekbones not yet honed by disappointment. Her garments are simple, yet eerily reminiscent of the high-necked gowns Yennefer is accustomed to seeing her in; a navy skirt, unflared, accompanied by a velvety red corset and a shirt whose collar frames her throat like a vice.

"Don't be scared," it says, and though the voice is young, it carries the weight of someone expecting to be obeyed. "I'm here to help you."

"I'm not scared," Yennefer's lips furl back, and she can't help the sneer that escapes her. "And I don't do help."

In front of her, the figure wearing a younger version of Tissaia's face laughs, her next words mocking.

"Yes, you don't need anyone."

Yennefer swallows hard, trying to keep her face from betraying how the words, in that voice, rankle her. Of course the figure would take the appearance of Tissaia de fucking Vries, because Yennefer cannot have a moment's peace. It is made all the more unsettling by the uncanny likeness of her youthful features, smoothed of years and wear - similar, yet so different to the Tissaia Yennefer knows.

The figure approaches her, its steps slow and measured, before grabbing her wrist. A finger caresses her pulse point. Yennefer's heart hammers in her chest from more than just fear.

"And yet, you've stayed for decades. Why?" The finger moves to circle the scars on her wrist then, softly at first -then hard enough to bruise. "Is it love?"

That last word sends a jolt through her. Yennefer's body floods with longing for something she does not know the name of. The urge to pull away her wrist is overshadowed by the desire to let the touch continue, painful as it is - much like being near Tissaia has always been too painful to bear, yet not nearly as painful as the absence of her. Years apart has only exacerbated that feeling.

"Power."

Yennefer finally rips her wrist free, the reminder of who she's dealing with shattering the illusion of closeness. This is not Tissaia, but rather an unknown entity seeking to manipulate her for its own gains. The resemblance is striking, of course, but the touch is a tell in itself. Tissaia and her has never shared anything of that sort, save their brief interactions at Sodden.

She taunts the figure, the only way she can think to regain some semblance of control after the unsettling touch. A deep, coarse timbre mixes with the youthful cadence of Tissaia's younger voice then.

"The others' dreams were obvious. You thought you were special," the voice that is not Tissaia's taunt her, and it hurts, because in all her life, Yennefer has never been able to escape the desire to matter - to be someone special - to the infernal woman now plauging her dreams. "But no. Yours was obvious too."

When questioned on why she has yet to portal herself free despite no longer being bound in dimiritium, Yennefer finally glimpses the metaphorical chessboard laid before her; herself a pawn, her lost chaos the trap. It chafes at her. She has spent decades carving out her independence, every triumph wrought by her own hands, all while spurning the help of others - and yet here she is again, nothing but a piece to be moved, not even a player.

Not-Tissaia finally manifests her fears in the form of a table holding a stone and a flower.

"Remember this lesson, piglet?"

And oh how her blood boils at that nickname, at the reminder who she used to be, before she gave up her power. Power that is now lost to her. Lost at Tissaia's behest.

Yet she cannot resist taking the flower into her hand, even as she knows the outcome that awaits. Some small part of her stubbornly clings to the hope that her chaos had just been utterly depleted, then kept from replenishing due to the presence of dimeritium. The hope festers in her chest like an untended wound.

"Zeilil eip."

Nothing happens. She repeats the incantation once, twice, thrice, voice raising in octave in step with her rising frustration.

"You gave up everything, and for what? Love?" Not-Tissaia smirks, the edges of her smile sharp and sinister. "What will you live for now?"

Yennefer grabs the stone and hurls it to the floor with a curse, and Not-Tissaia laughs, her visage rippling like the surface of a lake disturbed. Her features distorts into those of an old elven woman, then a figure clad in gleaming armour embossed with Nilfgaard's crest, until they settle on those of an elderly woman, sharp black eyes curtained by a mop of grey curls.

There is a malevolence to the woman's features that belies her frail frame, and Yennefer feels her body tremble in fear as the crone approaches, certainty dripping from her words like blood from a fresh wound.

"You will beg me to take it from you. And I will."

A sharp sting across her wrists demands her attention, and Yennefer looks down. Her scars, once faded with age, are glistening, fresh blood welling from it in eager rivulets that run down her shaking hands and onto the floor in thick streams of crimson. Her breath stutters, body cold as she feels that age-old fear creep back, burrowing beneath her skin like a hooked barb. The loneliness - that gnawing sense of worthlessness, of being unloved - cuts deeper than the cuts lining her wrists.

Laughter echoes in her ears as her world turns dark once more.

—

Yennefer comes to huddled against the trunk of a tree, half hidden by the undergrowth covering the forest floor. She can't help the whimper that escapes her throat as she checks her wrists, nor the relief that floods her at finding the scars faded and unopened.

Fringilla finds her as she rises, voice suspiciously warm as she proclaims her freedom, speaking of an alliance between Nilfgaard and the elves that Yennefer has little doubt will be nothing but a footnote in the history books.

"You're both fools," she exclaims, unable to hide the lingering tremor in her words. "You know that witch is no god."

No words she can summon manage to dissuade the sorceress. Her eyes are alight with a newfound ambition that Yennefer, until this moment, had not thought her former schoolmate capable of. Yet Fringilla's argument that the witch is not evil rings hollow in her ears. Yennefer knows she was not let go out of kindness.

She's prey, set free to be hunted.

The knowledge sears behind her eyelids, tears threatening to spill as thunder rumbles overhead. Around her, the elves have packed up their camp, and are marching in a line towards the lands of their ancestors, now occupied by Nilgaard. Fringilla moves to join them without a backwards glance. Yennefer watches her go, wishing she could send her flying into the nearest tree. But Fringilla is without her dimeritium shackles as well, and unlike Yennefer, she is all the more powerful for it.

Yennefer breathes out as the first rain drop touches her cheeks, already wet with her own tears. Despair threatens to sweep her out to sea and drown her in its depths. It has been years since she felt this alone, this helpless. Not since before her Ascension, where she took her destiny into her own hands and wrestled it into a shape to her liking. She's always preferred the comforting thrum of chaos beneath her skin over the company of others. Now, its absence only serves to multiply her solitude.

She can think of only one place to go - can think of only one person that may have a chance at helping her. The realization burns in her throat, along with the memory of her dreams, tainted as they are by the witch's presence. Fringilla is wrong. She has to be. Tissaia is as immovable as the rocks beneath Aretuza. It is impossible to imagine the world without her - so Yennefer simply doesn't.

She turns on her heel then, striding in the opposite direction of the procession of elves with hurried, frantic strides. She does not know her exact location, only that Aretuza is at least a week's travel away by foot. The skies split open above her as she breaks into a run. She's drenched to the bone within seconds, leaving her to stumble through the woods on tired, wet legs.

Despite knowing the futility of it, a stubborn refusal to acknowledge her reality bids her attempt to open a portal. She fails, again and again, the Elder words falling from her lips more prayer than incantation. The helplessness snaps at her heels like a bloodhound, spurring her onwards.

Alone, devoid of magic, with no legacy to call her own. Her worst fear made reality.

Her foot catches on a root hidden beneath the autumn leaves littering the forest floor. She tumbles to her knees then, the beginnings of a scream welling in her throat. She cannot return to Aretuza - to Tissaia - like this. The thought of returning in this state is too shameful to bear. There must be someone, something, on this godsforsaken Continent that can return her magic to her. Aretuza must be her last resort.

I can return what you've lost.

The deathless mother's whisper is soft, sinister. The ramification of the witch's presence in her mind sends panic skittering down her spine. As thunder cracks the sky above, Yennefer empties her lungs of air in a release that tears at her throat and leaves her chest feeling hollow and empty.

Chapter Text

The following weeks crawl by at an agonizing pace, marked by endless meetings and fruitless searching. Vilgefortz persists in his efforts to ally with her, and it takes all the years of her long life to suffer his attention. Rebuffing his repeated attempts at an alliance is easy enough, as Tissaia is known for her neutrality where internal Brotherhood matters are concerned - at least insofar as its other members are aware. In reality, she simply prefers exerting her influence through spies and machinations behind the scenes. All the Brotherhood's members deal in information of course, but most are far too reliant on brute-forcing their agenda through a vote. With the way their meetings tend to go, Tissaia had learned early on in her tenure that results are far easier to come by on her own.

And so she sends her spies to track down any information pertaining to Vilgefortz past, even as the man is elected to fill Vanielle's now vacant seat in the Chapter. He has not been part of the Brotherhood long, and his is a suspiciously blank slate. The only information known regarding his origins is that he was trained by druids, and has served as a mercernary. Anyone would be hard pressed to find out much more about Tissaia herself, of course, but that is in part due to her considerable lifespan - one she knows Vilgefortz does not share.

With Vanielle's death at Sodden, Tissaia no longer has an ally in the Chapter. Artorius has always let himself be swayed too easily by Stregobor's rhetoric. More than likely Vilgefortz counted on that when he orchestrated their participation in the battle at the cost of Vanielle's and countless other mages' lives.

Tissaia breathes through her anger. She permits it to pass over her and through her, her resolve bolstered in the wake of its passing. When it dissipates, only she remains.

Her hands seek out the wooden texture of her pipe, thumb tracing the smooth curve of its bowl. She packs the herbs wirth practiced motions, muscle memory freeing up her mind to wander as it pleases. She has never made a habit of smoking during the day, but since Sodden she finds herself reaching for its soothing qualities more often. Her first inhale is long and deep, smoke curling up to kiss her face. In the first week after the battle such a deep inhale would have induced a severe coughing fit, lungs still sensitive after the dimeritium dust, but now it only necessitates a clearing of her throat afterwards.

Her spies have so far turned up nothing of note on Vilgefortz, and the lack of information is worrying in itself. Mages rarely escape the notice of history unless they are either irrelevant or seek to conceal themselves. Given that the man has wormed his way onto a seat on the Chapter, he has put himself firmly in the latter category. With any luck, today's check-in with her lead spy will reveal something she can use.

The Nilfgaardian prisoner, meanwhile, has not revealed anything else since her first foray into his mind. Further probing had revealed a magical barrier which had kept her from accessing any memories from before the battle, entrenched so deeply in the recesses of his mind as to make it impossible to filter through without destroying his memories in the process. She has begun the process of unraveling it, but it is proving to be a slow and tiresome process - made slower still by her limited time and many responsibilities.

While Vilgefortz had voiced his support for her actions initially, he has started talking about executing the prisoner in a public display of power before the Northern kings. As if power is something only obtainable through death and violence. And though Artorius and Stregobor have yet to acquiesce, loathe as they are to support a political rival, Tissaia knows it is only a matter of time before Vilgefortz' arguments of power will sway them. Once more she finds herself missing Vanielle's cool head and steady counsel. The Chapter had felt less like a battlefield and more like a forum for discussion with her presence.

To make matters worse, there have been no sightings of Yennefer since the battle. Tissaia has scoured the Continent with her magic in search of the chaos signature she knows almost as intimately as her own, but she has been able to feel nothing, not even the faintest ripple. Her informants, likewise, have heard no reports of a sorceress with raven hair and violet eyes.

Sometimes, what is lost is lost.

The thought rises in her mind, unbidden, and Tissaia banishes it with vicious expedience. She knows well that allowing such thoughts to gain a foothold is the first step to giving up.

A knock on her door interrupts her spiraling thoughts. Outside her door, Triss Merigold's chaos rustle like leaves in the wind, restless and anxious.

"Enter," she calls, schooling her features back into one of calm neutrality.

Triss closes the door behind her quietly before coming to stand before the desk at which Tissaia is seated. The girl has always had a quiet disposition, but she's spoken nary a word since the battle at Sodden. At first, Tissaia had put it down to her still healing wounds, but it is slowly becoming clear that the lingering pain is not of the physical variety.

"Triss," she greets warmly, maneuvering around her desk to lean against its edge so she can place a comforting arm on the redhead's shoulder. "What is it?"

Triss gives a small smile at the gesture.

"A friend of mine has asked for my help," Triss starts, then pauses as if weighing her words. "The matter is of a- magical nature."

It is obvious from the girl's features that here is more to it than that, but Tissaia merely waits. She knows when to press for information and when to stay quiet, and where Triss is concerned, force is seldom - if ever - the way forward.

"A change of scenery would do you good, dear," she says instead, letting her expression soften. "How long will you require?"

Triss smiles, and it's a tremulous thing that tugs painfully at Tissaia's heartstrings. Some wounds only time can heal.

"I don't know," she confesses, steeling herself with a breath before continuing: "I'll be staying at Kaer Morhen. My friend wants me to help determine the magical potential of a young girl, and possibly train her."

"A witcher," Tissaia surmises, recalling the man who had shown up in the company of young girl the morning after the battle at Sodden.

Triss nods.

"His name is Geralt of Rivia."

A girl with magical talent, accompanied by the selfsame witcher who had come looking for Yennefer. The obvious thing to do when discovering the girl's magical talent would have been to bring her to Aretuza, a place dedicated to teaching control. The fact that this witcher is asking for help from individual sorceresses means that he does not trust Aretuza with her safety. Tissaia's lips thin at the implications. There are too many overlapping variables for it to be coincidence.

"And the girl - is her name Cirilla of Cintra?"

For a moment it seems Triss stops breathing entirely, and Tissaia briefly wonders if she should not have let on that she suspected the girl's identity. But no, she cannot protect her girls if she does not have the same information as their would-be enemies. Attempting to shield Yennefer over the years has taught her that much, at least.

"I saw Cirilla of Cintra at Sodden," she says, and Triss startles, though whether it's from the revelation or from bringing up still painful memories, Tissaia is unsure. "She was there with the witcher. I didn't know who she was then, but now it makes sense. They were looking for-"

"Yennefer," Triss finishes for her, and Tissaia nods. When she continues, her voice is sorrowful: "Still no word?"

Tissaia shakes her head in response, not trusting herself to keep the tremor out of her voice. Triss does not need to know the extent of her worries - they will only add to her own.

"Go," she urges instead. "Take whatever time you need. I will send a replacement to Temeria in your stead."

"Thank you," Triss breathes, grabbing the hand on her shoulder with one of her own and squeezing. "I will leave on the morrow."

Tissaia slumps against the edge of her desk as copper curls disappear from view, the door to her study closing with a soft click. So princess Cirilla of Cintra is alive and in the company of witchers. Tissaia feels a faint throbbing start to build behind her eyes. There are no small number of people who would hunt the girl to the ends of the Continent for their own gains, and Triss involving herself will inevitably paint a target on her back.

Another one of her girls caught up in a web spun by power-hungry royals and mages.

It's dark outside her window when she realizes her lead spy has not reported in. In all their years of service, they have never once missed a meeting. Something has happened.

The flames in the hearth pop and crackle as they flare up. Tissaia does not move, does not blink, only watching as the fire mirrors her inner turmoil. Eventually, it gutters and flickers out entirely beneath her cool gaze.

—

When word of Dijkstra's arrival reaches her ears, Tissaia knows her day is about to take a turn for the worse. One of the new students have gone missing, and while it's not unheard of for novices to run away after being faced with the rigors of Aretuza's curriculum, it is troublesome nonetheless. On top of that, another of her spies have failed to check-in, and though she can plant new ones, it will not bring her whatever knowledge they came upon that led to their disappearances. The fact that the head of Redania's secret service chooses now to appear is suspicious at best.

The spymaster does not even wait until they make it to a meeting chamber before delivering the news of an elven baby - the first born in generations, and to a mage no less. Stregobor latches onto this piece of information like a dog to a bone, speaking as if the babe poses the same threat as the Emperor of Nilfgaard himself.

"Only you could see a threat where everyone else sees a baby," she comments, letting disdain colour her words as she moves past them.

"Not all of us have your soft spot for elves, Tissaia."

Though the words bear the influence of Stregobor, it is Artorius who speaks them, and Tissaia lets her eyes close briefly while her back is turned, willing her patience to persevere. She is the only member left onthe Chapter advocating for peace between humans and elves, something which her colleagues love to remind her of - especially whenever the topic of Yennefer of Vengerberg comes up.

She remains silent as Artorius, Stregobor and Vilgefortz bicker about the ramifications of an elven baby, noting that Dijkstra opts to do the same. When she turns to face the others, she catches the look of amusement in his eyes.

"I find it so very hard to believe that you came here simply to share gossip," she interrupts, narrowing her eyes at Dijkstra.

News of an elven baby would have reached them sooner or later. Delivering the news himself is but an excuse to appear at their doorstep, so that he may sniff around for whatever information he is truly here for.

"Well, in my line of work, today's gossip is next month's news," the spymaster notes, coming to stand beside her. "For instance, I heard that one of your former students has left her post. Foltest's mage?"

When his words are met with silence, he prods again:

"Triss Merigold, is it?"

Tissaia narrows her eyes at Dijkstra who meets her stare without flinching. In her periphery, the other Chapter members share a look.

"Triss left?" Vilgefortz queries,

"Temporarily. She's still recovering after the battle," Tissaia responds, not taking her eyes off the Redanian spymaster as he hums thoughtfully.

"Yes, I'm sure the mountain air will do her good," Dijkstra's face morphs into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Give her my best."

He is clearly aware of Triss' destination, but has opted not to reveal it to the other Chapter members. A threat then? Or a power play? While the latter is typical for Philippa Eilheart and her co-conspirator, Tissaia knows they are nothing if not deliberate in their choice of words.

"Oh I will," Tissaia says as the man moves to leave. "As long as you give King Vizimir ours, for this distracting information about the baby. Will there be anything else, Dijkstra?"

Let him know that she sees his attempt for what it is; sowing seeds of discord in already unstable ground.

"Nothing else, Archmistress," he smiles again, the sound of her title hollow in his mouth. "I came only to bring you these troubling news - and to enjoy Gors Velen's famed ale, of course."

Tissaia allows herself a frown as she watches his red robes disappear around the corner. Dijkstra's fondness for drink and bold colours is well known, to the point where it does not need saying.

She reaches out to the thread of chaos whose presence has become almost as familiar as the walls of Aretuza themselves.

"Rita. I need you to cover my next class."

One of Magherita Laux-Antille's finest qualities is knowing when she can get away with needling - and when to bite back her jokes (for later use, of course) and do as requested. When no comment about the rectoress playing hokey comes, Tissaia knows the woman has judged it to be time for the latter.

"Of course," comes the swift reply.

It is heartening to know she has at least one ally within these halls still, she thinks as she turns to leave - only to find Vilgefortz holding her in place. Tissaia raises her head to level him with a stare that tells him exactly what she thinks of of the hand on her arm, and he at least has the good sense to withdraw it immediately. Behind them, Artorius and Stregobor take their leave.

"You didn't tell me Triss had gone," he states, voice tinged with concern of all things - as if they have some sort of accord that she has failed to follow through on. "Where is she?"

Tissaia regards him coolly.

"I am under no obligation to tell you or any other members of the Chapter the whereabouts of my girls."

"I only worry for her health. She still suffers from battle shock - I have seen it in the men I've led into battle for the first time many times over. She should be here, with her kind," his tone is convincing in its sincerity, and Tissaia counts herself glad for the memory she had unknowingly stumbled upon after Sodden - the man is an incredibly skilled liar. "I would not want you to lose another one."

Tissaia feels her jaw clench at the effort of not responding to the threat hiding behind concerned words. Images of Vanielle, Coral, Yennefer and many more flicker past the inside of her eyelids. She folds her hands over her waist with painstaking precision, letting the motion center her and calm her surging chaos.

"Nor do I plan to."

Vilgefortz says nothing as she pulls away and strides from the room in the direction of her chambers, but Tissaia can feel his eyes boring into the back of her skull.

She will need to travel to Gors Velen by portal from behind the safety of her wards to avoid alerting anyone to her departure. The guards stationed at the gate are famously loose-lipped, and she is aware that Stregobor has a few spies posted near the bridge leading into town. Doubtlessly Vilgefortz has a couple of his own scattered nearby by now.

Distantly, she wonders when Aretuza started to feel more like a battlefield than home, ambushes and pit falls waiting round every corner.

—

It is market day in Gors Velen, and the streets are bustling with activity, making it easy for Tissaia to blend in under the hood of her dark cloak. She has to give it to Dijkstra; the timing could not have been more perfect.

Wary, she makes her way to the inn. That wariness doubles as she spies a snow white owl perched atop its tiled roof. Tissaia has not spoken to Philippa Eilheart since their disagreement about the mages' involvement in the war, and she has no desire to do so now.

Steeling herself, Tissaia steps inside - and immediately spots Dijkstra. For all his expertise in the arts of spying and information gathering, the boldness of his red robe easily sets him apart from the rest of the inn's occupants, whose wardrobes consists of darker, muted colours. He nods at her and ascends a staircase in the corner of the room, and Tissaia follows, keeping her hood up as she dodges tables and people alike.

He waits for her in an alcove overlooking a deserted side street. Tissaia narrows her eyes at the owl watching them from a roof across the street, its feathery head tilted sideways.

"I hope you don't mind," Dijkstra gestured at the owl outside the window. "She said you would not wish to speak to her."

Tissaia purses her lips and turns her attention to the man before her. His face is nearly as red as his robe, indicating he has indeed had a taste of Gors Velen's famous ale.

"She was correct."

Dijkstra lets out a laugh at that, though he quickly sobers. Silence reigns between them, but Tissaia simply waits. She is not the one who initiated this meeting.

"You have been distracted since Sodden," he notes eventually, eyes cold and calculating. "Too distracted to notice the enemy you went to war against has implanted itself in your midst."

Tissaia's eyes harden at the insinuation.

"I am well aware. The problem lies in proving their true allegiance."

"Mmh, I've heard of your missing spies," Dijkstra hums. Tissaia notes the use of spies plural, and it sets her teeth on edge. Redania's secret service is the best on the Continent, but it has been only hours since her second spy failed to report in. "Luckily, your answers are already within reach."

Dijkstra raises his chin rather unnecessarily, considering he already towers above her.

"Portals are convenient things, aren't they? Shame they're so easily traceable."

Tissaia watches the spymaster descend back down the stairs, considering the implications of his words. His insinuation that someone - likely Vilgefortz - would cast portals to illicit locations from within Garstang Castle is preposterous precisely because of how easily traceable they are. It speaks of a carelessness and arrogance that can only come from vastly underestimating your opponents, and the perceived insult stings - because it has worked. She has not even considered the idea due to it's outlandish nature.

Tissaia lets out a sigh. She has been distracted, she can admit that much to herself. In her attempt to balance the demands of her duties to Aretuza and the Brotherhood, the investigation into Vilgefortz, and her search for Yennefer, she has stretched herself and her resources too thin. Something has to give, and she already knows which endeavor duty demands she give up on.

It's been nearly a month since Sodden. There have been no sightings of Yennefer, and no amount of scrying has revealed her chaos signature. Even the memory Tissaia had pulled from the tatters of Chair's mind is inaccessible to her now, too faded to access without breaking down the magical barrier surrounding his mind like a steel cage. Some days, it's almost too easy to imagine it's all in her head - that she has been chasing the ghost of a woman long dead.

It is easier to keep running, after all, than to face the grief she knows awaits her should she stop moving for even a second.

It is for this reason her mind immediately grasps for a different line of thought to anchor itself to. Trying to parse what Philippa and Dijkstra stand to gain from sharing this breadcrumb with her is a formidable, if worrying distraction. Her former student is not one to reveal her hand unless it serves a purpose. Doubtless they have already ascertained the destination of the portals themselves if they are willing to tip her off. They want her to see for herself, she surmises - and then, they will want to see what she does with the information.

Tissaia feels her finger itch for the comforting feel of her pipe, longing for the calm left in the wake of warm smoke as it leaves her lungs. How she tires of these games whose only prize is power.

When she turns back towards the window, the owl is gone.

Chapter Text

The following weeks crawl by at an agonizing pace, marked by long days of walking and fruitless searching. Yennefer has travelled the length of the mountain range that serves as a natural border between Temeria and Aedirn, following up on old leads leftover from her search for an infertility cure. Each one has so far turned up to be little more than rumour or wishful thinking.

She subsists on berries and spring water, and picks herbs to trade for a rare loaf of bread or a soft bale of hay for the night. Summer is fading fast, and the cool autumn air nips at her heels. She cannot keep travelling under these conditions much longer, she knows, before the nights become too cold and the land too barren to live off of.

Though the forest of Caed Dhu is long behind her, the deathless mother is never far. Each night greets her with a slightly different variation of the same dream, and even though she knows what awaits her, each night Yennefer lets herself be fooled anew. Sometimes she finds herself in Tissaia's chambers, other times in her study. On rare occasions she interrupts a lesson or a Chapter meeting. The dreams are suffused with a promise of safety and closeness that Yennefer, in all her decades, has never known.

And each night, dream gives way to nightmare as the scene is consumed by a roaring fire of her own making and she wakes with the taste of soot and ash on her tongue. Worse yet are the days where she wakes to the whisper of a fleeting touch against her temple, brushing past the edges of her mind as if searching for something. It is at once both foreign and familiar, and it leaves behind an aching sadness in its wake for reasons Yennefer can't articulate. The sensation grows increasingly rare, until after two weeks time it finally ceases all-together.

Her waking hours are little better, marked by whispers offering false comfort and mocking commentary on her inner turmoil. Her search for a way to reclaim her magic has so far proven fruitless, and the deathless mother's taunting whispers in her mind are sounding more and more like her own each day. Each dead end chips at her defences, and each passing day it gets more and more tempting to simply give in. It is then that she knows. It is time to return to Aretuza.

It's in Burdoff that she first hears whisper of the Sandpiper, a bard said to help elves escape persecution following the news of their alliance with Nilfgaard. The bard is said to operate along the Pontar river, securing passage on ships sailing south. For the first time in her life, Yennefer finds that her elven lineage might prove of some use - even if only to grant her safe passage down the river.

When a merchant takes pity on her and offers a ride in his cart, carrying her all the way from Burdoff to Moën, Yennefer has to blink back the tears gathering behind her eyes at the kindness. She has not cried since she left the boughs of Caed Dhu, her despair slowly giving way to a growing sense of apathy with each lead that withers into nothing.

From Moën she treks the short distance to Bondar, and when there are no signs or whispers of the Sandpaper there, she heads east to White Bridge. Here she hears the rumours of a travelling bard on the lips of a merchant coming down from Egremonth just north of the river crossing. That night, Yennefer trades a bundle of rare herbs for a bowl of hot broth and a bale of hay in the inn's stables.

It is not so far off from how her life used to be, except now she's sharing a roof with horses rather than pigs, and the thought causes a hot wave of self-loathing to sweep through her.

Come to me.

Yennefer clenches her eyes shut and wills herself to sleep.

—

The Northern Sea crashes against the rocks outside her window with a ferocity reminiscent of her first night in Aretuza. It is dark, and the moon hangs high in a sky devoid of clouds and stars alike. It is a shame the sea is so violent tonight that it hides the reflection of the silver sphere, Yennefer muses. For a moment she imagines herself lost beneath the churning waves as she had during her first week here. She had always imagined that it would be peaceful beneath its volatile surface.

Warm, steady hands land on her shoulders, grounding her with gentle pressure.

"It's been too long," the murmur is soft, and Yennefer shivers at the emotion bleeding through that usually stoic voice.

She turns around and comes face to face with Tissaia. Blue eyes trace over her face with a desperation born out of grief, and thin lips tremble at what they see. Yennefer knows she must look a mess, but for once, the older woman does not comment.

The hands on her shoulders shift, gliding slowly down her arms. Trailing fingers feel like embers tracing patterns across her skin, leaving behind a warmth that tingles pleasantly in their wake. Then-

A sharp, stinging pain.

They're in her old room. Tissaia is holding a shard in one hand, its jagged edges glistening red. Yennefer can see the broken remnants of her mirror over the woman's shoulder.

When she looks down, there's a thin, red line traversing the skin of her right wrist. Yennefer raises her eyes to search Tissaia's face even as the blood starts pouring, only to be met with a mask of calm indifference.

"Sometimes, the best thing a flower can do for us is to die."

She can only watch in mute horror as Tissaia brings the shard to her other wrist to repeat the motion.

—

Yennefer wakes with a scream lodged in her throat, and the deathless mother's laughter ringing in her ears. It is well past noon judging by the sun's location in the sky, and she is surprised she has not yet been told to leave. Any other day she may have appreciated the extra hours of warmth and comfort offered by a roof over her head, yet today she wishes she had been chased off at first light as per usual. She knows the image of Tissaia slitting her wrists in the same manner Yennefer herself once did will haunt her for the rest of her journey, if not longer.

It soon becomes clear why she has been left to her own devices. The stable hand is nowhere to be seen, and there are surprisingly few people milling about on the streets. The faint notes of a lute float through the air from the entrance, signalling that the bard has arrived and started his performing for the day.

Upon entering, it becomes clear that half the town has decided to to cram into the small tavern. Yennefer stands in the entrance for a moment, surveying the crowded space and trying to locate the performer. When she does, her eyes widen in shock. She had known it was a possibility, and yet, the odds of the Sandpiper being the jovial fool that had followed Geralt around like a lost puppy has to have been slim to none.

Yennefer stands rooted to the spot, lilac eyes watching as Jaskier launches into another ballad, this time about a butcher condemned to burn. As he plays the final notes, his eyes sweep over her spot in the doorway, and he blinks - several times, as if attempting to dislodge a particularly stubborn mote of dust.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is time for a quick hydration break. Remember to toss a coin if you can," he rattles off with a bow. "If anyone needs me, I'll be at the bar."

Is she imagining it, or is he winking at her while saying that last part?

With equal parts curiosity and trepidation, she approaches the bar where Jaskier is already seated, bottle in hand.

"Witch," he greets her when she approaches. "You look a sight."

Yennefer sighs, knowing she looks nothing like she did when last they parted. Though she has washed to the best of her ability in streams, her clothes are torn and dirtied from weeks of travelling on foot.

"Bard," she returns, stepping forward to engulf him in a brief embrace.

She is surprised by her own actions. She has never sought physical comfort in another person except for the sake of pleasure, and that is most definitely not where she is intending for this interaction to go. But the relief at seeing a familiar face after so long on her own, with nothing but her anguish and the deathless mother for company, is so palpable she can't help it.

"Hugging. We're hugging," Jaskier states, shocked disbelief colouring his words. "I'm going to need another drink."

He orders two drinks instead of one, sliding one over to her even as he downs half of his own in one gulp. They speak of Geralt, briefly, and it becomes clear that she is not the only one who's been left with a sour taste in her mouth after parting ways with the witcher.

"Why are you here?"

A valid question, though a bustling tavern is hardly the place to discuss her elven lineage nor her plans to be smuggled aboard a ship bound for the south.

"A discussion better left for closing time, I'm sure," she says by way of answering.

Jaskier gives her suspicious look, but eventually settles for placing another order before resuming his performance. Yennefer is pleasantly surprised when, at end of the first song, a warm meal and a mug of ale is placed in front of her.

As the gnawing hunger in her belly recedes, her chest fills with something other than despair for the first time in weeks.

—

It's well past midnight when Yennefer steps onto the boat, a medium-sized fishing barge docked at the fringes of White Bridge's harbour. Jaskier had promised the boat would be making stops along both sides of the river, giving her plenty chances to hop off at a port of her choosing. A small band of elves shares the hold with her, regarding her with open distrust. Yennefer turns from them in so as not to make an enemy of the people she will be holed up with for the next couple of days. Her eyes have always been too abnormal for humans, and her ears too round for elves.

She's only just said goodbye to Jaskier, their parting surprisingly pleasant, when she hears a commotion outside, followed by a pained sound that is unmistakably Jaskier's. There's the thud of a body dropping to the ground, then silence.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Their honest parting words still ring in her head. Rather than mock her for losing her magic, the bard had responded with honesty and compassion. Despite their past adversity to one another, he had offered his help when asked - which is more than she can say for the vast majority of people she's known in her life.

Whatever mess he's gotten himself into, she can't let him face it alone. Gods knows he had always relied on Geralt to get him out of trouble before. The bard is worryingly lacking in the self-preservation department, unlike Yennefer herself. Yet still, she finds herself stepping off the boat as shouts of 'last call' echo across the water.

She finds his lute broken on the ground near the harbour master's office, and the sight causes a fist of dread to tighten around her neck. She's spent decades solving every problem she's come across with the help of her chaos. Now, with a friend's life hanging in the balance, she has to make do without.

You can't save him.

Yennefer let's the shock of thinking of Jaskier as her friend drown out the deathless mother. There's a few droplets of blood left on the hard-packed ground, barely visible in the moonlight, and she follows the trail as best she can. She has to crouch and lower her face to the ground too many times for her liking, but the trail eventually takes her back to the now darkened tavern. When she draws near she hears muffled screams coming from inside, and a quick peek confirms her fears.

Two chairs sit facing each other, the floor around them cleared of tables. Jaskier occupies one, bound and bleeding. The chair facing away houses his assailant, though Yennefer can tell little from this angle other than the fact that they are alone. Good. She can handle one angry husband or wife or whoever Jaskier has managed to piss of this time.

Her plan is only half-formed by the time she smashes a hole through a window behind the counter and slips it open. Her cloak catches on the broken remnants of the window, so she shrugs it off mid-climb. She grabs a half-empty bottle of liquor from a shelf, before striding towards the chairs with all the confidence of a drunkard oblivious to their surroundings.

The man in the other chair would be conventionally attractive, were it not for the malevolent glint in his eyes lending narrow features a manic look. Jaskier, bless him, immediately starts begging the man to let her go, as if he doesn't know what a rescue attempt looks like. That's the first clue.

Her second clue comes when she takes a swig of the bottle in her hand and swaggers towards the stranger. As she lowers the bottle from her face, the smell of burnt flesh hits her and she looks down to spy the ruined flesh of Jaskier's right hand. She harshly swallows the liquid in her mouth to keep from spitting it out, and quickly takes another, chasing away the nauseating smell with the strong alcohol.

Her third and last cue comes when the man rises from his chair to push her into a nearby pillar, a hissing flame springing to life between them at the snap of his fingers. A mage, and one wielding fire magic no less. Any other day, this revelation would have been catastrophically bad.

Now, the liquid still burning the insides of her mouth finds a new use as she spits it at the flame in front of her. Where the droplets meet fire, a flash of fire blooms outward towards the stranger's face. The man falls to the ground with a scream, smoke rising from his convulsing form, and Yennefer prays that it leaves a scar. She paid for her fire with her chaos. Let this man pay with his looks.

You can have it back.

She hastily undo the ropes securing Jaskier to the chair, accidentally jostling his burned hand as she flinches at the voice in her mind. His legs buckle beneath him as he stands, and she has to fling his arm around her shoulders to drag him outside to the stables. The stable hand is blessedly absent - probably sleeping off a night of drunken stupor.

She grabs a bridle from the rack and slips it on the first horse they come across, not bothering with a saddle. Getting Jaskier up onto the horse proves difficult with his burned hand, but after several seconds of tense struggling, they are finally galloping past the town's border.

Yennefer's mind races. She cannot mend Jaskier's hand without her magic. They need a healer, and quickly, or the bard may never play his lute again.

Who are we, when we can no longer do the one thing we were put on this Continent to do?

Jaskier's earlier words float through her mind, and Yennefer's stomach churn. The deathless mother answers for her:

You are no one.

In the distance, the Temple of Melitele rises from atop the mountainside as if in answer to a prayer Yennefer does not remember reciting.

—

When morning arrives, Yennefer finds herself in the study of Melitele's arch-priestess. Nenneke is a woman of short stature and dark skin, with hair cropped close to the scalp in a way that accentuates her austere features. Yet there is a warm smile playing on her lips as she assures her that Jaskier will eventually regain full function of his right hand.

The smile disappears quickly once Yennefer inquiries for a way to regain her lost chaos, however.

"What is lost is lost," the priestess frowns, her warmth replaced by severity. "Refusing to acknowledge that will only bring you further heartache, child."

What has been lost can be regained.

Yennefer closes her eyes. She is so tired. She has spent weeks traversing the length of Temeria with nothing to show for it but nightmares and an ever-growing pit of despair in the depths of her soul.

She senses there is little to be gained from arguing with the arch-priestess, however, so Yennefer goes in search of Jaskier instead to share the news of his guaranteed recovery.

She had awoken to a tub of warm water and a bar of dreadfully bland-smelling soap. Her dress, while still tattered and stained, had been washed and left folded nearby. It is the kindest way she has ever been told she stinks. Yennefer tries to focus on the sensation of being clean for the first time in weeks, rather than the fact that she could have been halfway to Aretuza by now.

When she hears raised voices coming from behind the door to the room Jaskier has been given, Yennefer worries that he has managed to offend one of the priestesses. The voices stop abruptly as she opens the door, though she catches the tail-end of Jaskier's outburst.

"-don't you fucking Jaskier me!"

Yennefer stares. Geralt is stood by Jaskier's beside, looking like he is at a loss for words. Which, really, isn't that unusual for him, expect now there's a twinge of pain and regret in the set of his jaw.

"Ah, she-devil, anything you want to add?" Jaskier ask from his spot against the headboard as if pausing during one of his performances. His right arm is covered in bandages up to the middle of his forearm. "You saved my life, after all, so I'll let you have a quick go."

She doesn't respond. Her heart, no- the djinn's magic twangs with longing at the sight of the witcher, and the loneliness of the past few weeks make her want to rush into his arms. She scowls, hating the feeling even as she craves the promise of it.

"Geralt, do you know what to do with this?"

They all turn as the door opens behind Yennefer to reveal a young girl carrying an azure sphere - an orbuculum. The girl looks at the three of them like a startled deer as she realizes Geralt is not alone: "Sorry."

"Ciri, these are my-" Geralt pauses as if searching for the right word. "Dear friends. Yennefer and Jaskier."

Behind him, Jaskier snorts at the wording. Yennefer winces.

"You're Yennefer?" Ciri asks, looking like she's seen a ghost.

Before Yennefer can question her about it, Jaskier is herding them out the door while muttering about breakfast and reunions. Yennefer is only interested in one of the two, but she is hungry enough that she follows without hesitation.

The breakfast is lavish for a place of worship, but then again, Melitele is the goddess of fertility. The mountainside must be fertile land indeed. The first half of the meal is characterized by awkwardness and long monologues courtesy of Jaskier. The bard has never been one to let a silence go unfilled. It is, Yennefer suspects, the primary reason why his unlikely friendship with Geralt works so well.

It's not until Ciri starts questioning Yennefer about magic that the ice breaks enough for conversation to start flowing more naturally between them.

Geralt tries to inquire about her life, but her replies are short and clipped, and Jaskier takes the hint and resumes airing his grievances about Geralts and his parting. Yennefer has not forgiven him yet for meddling with her Destiny yet, doesn't know if she ever will, and talking only fuels the djinn's hold over her emotions.

"I dreamed about you once," Ciri tells her, voice unsure. "Before I even knew you existed."

Yennefer blinks. Prophetic dreams are a rare and coveted gift among mages. A Child Surprise indeed.

"Dreams are powerful omens," she nods, smiling in what she hopes is a reassuring way. "Perhaps we were meant to find each other."

As she speaks them, she knows the truth of her words. Geralt has tied her destiny to his, and Ciri, as his Child Surprise, is linked to him - and by extension Yennefer. That makes two destinies the hardheaded man has irrevocably altered now.

Yennefer cannot help but laugh at the irony. Here she is in the Temple of Melitele, the goddess of fertility, finally granted the child she has spent decades wishing for - but only after realizing she has been searching for the wrong thing.

Really, Destiny can go fuck itself.

—

The rest of the day she spends in the company of Ciri. The young girl seems endlessly fascinated by her, and there is unabashed awe in green eyes as she confides that Geralt had called Yennefer the most powerful sorceress he has ever met. Yennefer turns her laugh into a cough. Ciri clearly puts a lot of stock in Geralt's words, few and far between as they are, so she will not shatter this illusion yet. Besides, it is not the witcher's fault that he has never met Tissaia de Vries.

They are here for advice in controlling Ciri's chaos, Yennefer learns. Nenneke's and Tissaia's methods must vary greatly, however, for the arch-priestess has seemingly handed the girl an orbuculum and left it at that - no guidance or explanation offered.

So Yennefer takes it upon herself. She rattles off a spiel about balance and control similar to the one imparted on her by Tissaia many decades ago. But she also talks about the strength of emotions, of how they can serve as a source of strength.

Ciri listens with rapt attention and, mercifully, does not ask for demonstrations. From nearby, Geralt watches them with an unreadable expression. Yennefer has the distinct impression that he doesn't trust her around Ciri, as if she might attempt to steal away his Child Surprise. A ludicrous idea, though she can't entirely fault him for it. She had spent the better part of a decade obsessively pursuing motherhood, after all.

His hovering only relents when Jaskier reappears at his side and converses with him in an uncharacteristically quiet manner. When yellow eyes flick to her and Ciri once more, there is pity in them, and it reignites the spark of Yennefer's anger.

"Let's go for a walk, Ciri."

The girl is happy to oblige, and Yennefer is happy to be out of Geralt's sight. Jaskier's intent to prove her trustworthiness is a noble, if misguided, attempt at repaying her for saving his life, no doubt. One she'd rather be without, truth be told. It is hard to admit still, even to herself, what she's been reduced to.

"Why is there blood on your dress?"

The Temple gardens are serene in the warm light of the midday sun, and it takes a few seconds for the question to register. Around them, priestesses tend to the plants and chat quietly among themselves.

Yennefer swallows. Ciri speaks little of herself, but she is full of questions and not shy about voicing them.

"I was at a battle," Yennefer says slowly, inspecting the dark stain of dried blood over her abdomen that had not quite managed to wash out. "I was one of the lucky ones who made it out alive."

The lie burns her throat as it leaves. She does not feel lucky. She had taken one last look at Tissaia's face, vowing to not let the insufferable woman die at her hands, and then let every negative emotion she had ever felt wash over her and sweep her out to sea, sure she would drown in its depths.

Dying would have been a kinder fate than this; a life spanning decades, if not centuries, without her chaos.

Come to me.

"Geralt took us there, after the battle. To look for you," Ciri's words drag her from the dark thoughts clouding her mind. "There was a woman. She was looking for you too."

Yennefer's eyes widen.

"Tissaia," the name spills from her lips like water from an overflowing goblet.

Next to her, Ciri nods. There's a thoughtful expression on her face, half-hidden by blond tresses insistently swept over young features by a playful breeze.

"I dreamed of that as well. The aftermath of the battle. Geralt was shouting your name, but she- she was screaming," Ciri winces as if remembering the volume, and Yennefer feels her heart claw its way into her throat. "Who is she?"

It's a good question. One Yennefer does not know how to answer.

Tissaia had been her mentor once. Her teaching methods had been cruel and manipulative, meant to break - all so that they may build themselves back up stronger. And Yennefer had hated her for it, but more than that, she had hated herself for wanting the woman's recognition regardless.

Their relationship has always been one of adversity, even after decades of no contact. Their short-lived reunion in Rinde had been one more befitting of enemies than old acquaintances. And even then, that self-same desire to matter to her had reared its ugly head, and it had fanned the flames of Yennefer's anger after laying dormant for decades.

But Sodden, and the time leading up to the battle, had been marked by a strange softness. Tissaia had given a speech to a room full of mages while maintaining enough eye contact to make it clear that, in her eyes, Yennefer and Cintra were much the same - both deserving of a second chance. The woman had said please, a word Yennefer had been sure did not exist in Tissaia de Vries' vocabulary.

People do and say strange things when faced with the prospect of death, and perhaps Tissaia is no different. Yennefer realizes then that she wants- no, she has to know what they are to each other now. When she returns to Aretuza, will Tissaia hold her at arm's length as she always has, or will she be soft like she was at Sodden?

Yennefer looks to Ciri with a small grin. Maybe it's time to dispel one of the falsehoods Geralt has imparted on her.

"Her name is Tissaia de Vries. The most powerful sorceress alive."

—

"Firefucker."

Yennefer's whisper is loud in the quiet, carrying easily to the man in question. He bares his teeth at her, three quarters of his face scored by deep, red burn marks, raw and angry. He is accompanied by a handful of mercenaries, well-armed and well-armoured.

She is almost flattered. It's a lot of effort for a bard and a woman. She still doesn't know what his grievance with Jaskier is, but it is clear it now extends to her as well.

Or so she thinks, until Ciri rounds the corner and brings an abrupt end to the standstill with her presence alone. Firefucker and his sell-swords spring into action, and Geralt all but shoves Ciri into her arms. Jaskier is nowhere to be seen, and Yennefer hopes the bard has the good sense to stay hidden. She didn't save his life only for him to end up dead the next day.

"Hide," Geralt growls, swords flashing in the light from a nearby window.

Yennefer saves her breath rather than waste it on a scoff. They need to run, not hide. And so they do, running through dark corridors littered with too many candles and stone pillars to keep up a good momentum. She doesn't realize the room is a dead end before she's shut and barred the door behind them.

Flames lick at the wooden door. There's nowhere to run.

"Ciri, listen to me," Yennefer whirls around and places her hands on shaking shoulders, ignoring the fear trickling down her spine. "I don't have access to my magic. Which means you need to get us out of here."

Green eyes filled with fear snap to violet ones.

"I can't! My magic- every time I use it, someone gets hurt."

"You can," Yennefer says, emulating the same certainty she had heard in Tissaia's voice when she spoke the same words to her at Sodden. "Picture somewhere you feel safe. See the outcome - make it happen."

"I'm not scared," comes the reply, even as the words fall from trembling lips.

Yennefer only squeezes gently, and is glad when the shoulders beneath her hands stop shaking as Ciri closes her eyes tightly and steadies her breathing. Yennefer places herself so she's blocking the view of the door, not turning even as the sound of splintering wood reaches her ears.

When a portal rips itself open behind Ciri, too unstable to even make out the destination behind it, Yennefer pushes them both through without a second thought as the orbuculum shatters behind them.

And then pain erupts in her head like a breaking dam.

bringhertomecometomeyourpowerallyoudeservebringherbringherbringher

Yennefer falls to the ground, clutching at her head as if she can somehow stem the tide of whispers. She can hear Ciri retching somewhere next to her. Tissaia's lecture on the dangers of unstable portals rings in her ears, but it is soon lost in the cacophony of her mind.

The portal snaps shut behind them with a crack like lightning.

She tries to focus on physical sensations. She's cold. The ground is soft and white beneath her fingers. Snow. A prick - pine needles. North then.

"Where are we?" she asks when Ciri grows quiet beside her.

"Kaer Morhen. Or close by," the girl answers, glancing at their surroundings. "Geralt and I are staying here."

Yennefer clenches her jaw, hard. They're in Kaedwen, and the farthest region at that, nestled up against the Blue Mountains. She could not have ended up farther from Aretuza without leaving the Northern Kingdoms.

Her eyes burn. She's so tired. Ever since her decision to return to Aretuza, fate, Destiny, something has pushed her further and further away. Or pulled. Yennefer curses Destiny, djinns, and meddling men in equal measure.

icangiveyoubackwhatyouhavelostbringthegirlandchaoswillbeyoursbringherbringhercometome

"Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

Yennefer grits her teeth and stands, the world spinning with the motion.

"No, you did g-good," she manages a pained smile. "This is something else."

Ciri does not look entirely convinced, but when a violent shiver wracks both of them, she steels her expression and leads them in the direction of the keep. It's only after they start moving that Yennefer notices the well-trod path beneath their feet, partly hidden by a thin layer of snow.

Autumn elsewhere on the Continent is the equivalent of winter this far north. The wind bites at exposed skin, and the cold makes their limbs stiff and clumsy. Coupled with the deathless mother's relentless whispers, it feels like torture - of the mental and physical variety both.

When Kaer Morhen's gate finally looms in front of them, Yennefer barely notices the two silhouettes awaiting them. Ciri, however, does.

"Vesemir!"

She is vaguely aware of Ciri rushing ahead, but Yennefer doesn't move. Her eyes are trained on tan skin and copper curls, a stark contrast to the snowy backdrop of Kaer Morhen. Then those very curls are are brushing her cheeks as Triss sweeps her into a fierce embrace, and Yennefer is too stunned to do more than cling back, breath catching in her throat. There are precious few people Yennefer are willing to call her friend, but Triss Merigold is one of them.

"Yenna! We thought you'd died," the relief in Triss' voice is quickly replaced by concern. "Come, we need to get you inside."

bringherbringherbringherbringherbringherherher

The whispers in her mind crescendos as Ciri turns to look at them, and Yennefer winces at the pounding behind her temples. She does not know what the deathless mother wants with Ciri, only that Yennefer does not trust herself withstand this level of pressure for long.

"Triss, I need to g-go. Away f-from here."

The words are part hiss, part grunt, and by now the redhead's arms are the only thing keeping her upright. She doesn't know why Triss is here, can't spare the time to ask, but the woman is currently her best chance at putting distance between Ciri and herself.

"I… I can portal you to Aretuza," Triss offers, confusion marring her features. "But Yenna, what-"

"Do it," she cuts her off, then turns towards Ciri with an apologetic grimace. "Ciri, I have to go. It's nothing you did, I p-promise. You did good."

bringherbrINGHERBRINGHER

A look of hurt flashes across Ciri's face.

"Will I see you again?"

Yennefer barely manages a nod before stepping through the portal conjured by Triss.

There's a soft, hissing sound and then-

Silence.