i found you in the dark (@thesorceress)

[gwynbleids]

Geralt's knuckles are white as he grips the reins, urging Roach into a reckless gallop down the muddy roads. His presence of mind leaves much to be desired, he's not thinking straight and it makes him careless. He's made the journey from Kaer Morhen to the Temple of Melitele many times before, making the blur of road ahead of him easy enough to navigate. He knows he should slow and rest his horse, but he can't risk letting her slip through his fingers.

The whisper of her name from Triss was enough to stir his mind. Triss knew as soon as she said it that she had made a mistake in giving him that information. Although Ciri is his priority, his fear for Yen's safety lead him to feel assured in leaving her in the Witcher's keep for now. She's safer there than she would be with him, maybe even with Yennefer. She's acts like a wild cat at the best of times, he can only imagine how she'd lash out if she's in the state Triss described.

By the time he makes it to the gates of the temple, he's muddied, his hair is wild and he's tired from restless travel. His horse is weary, so he dismounts and leads it in slowly. It gives him time to find that resolve to stand before her again.

They know why he's here, it didn't take them long to realise it was his sorceress that had turned up on their doorstep. They lead him to her, they tell him she's resting and that he ought to rest himself before he meets her. Somehow, he's not sure if it's a jab at his appearance or the fact that he quickly loses composure at the mere mention of her, but he won't have it.

The door to her room creaks open and he calls through it, to ensure she's decent. Even if she's never really decent.

"Yen?" His voice is soft, but firm. Preparing her for the fact that he's going to step fully into the room and take a good look at her whether she likes it or not.

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[thesorceress]

She's lived so many decades that very little ought to remain with her, to trouble her at night. If Yennefer had not learned to leave the past where it belonged so quickly, she would have been driven mad by all she's seen and done in the name of her desire for power, for prestige, for everything. But Sodden remains, in the memory of a sharp bite in the belly, in the primal, wordless scream that had torn from her throat as she'd rained fire down on the battlefield, in the darkness that greets her each morning and every waking hour. It was Fringilla who had blinded her, Fringilla who had decided she was the mages' last, greatest threat to total Nilfgaardian victory. Yen can sense the magic in the wound, and she knows who willed it. Long ago, Fringilla Vigo had been only a meek little girl with more than middling talent for magic; now, she's grown into a force Yennefer could not have foreseen. Would she have witnessed the fall of her fellow mages -- Triss, burned; Sabrina, limp upon the ground; Coral, pinned and lifeless to a tree; Tissaia, gently encouraging with tears in her eyes -- had she gone to Nilfgaard in Fringilla's place, rather than seek her own pleasures in Aedirn? Perhaps not, for fanatics will always do as they will, but there's no sense in guilting herself over spilt blood. What's done is done, and she unleashed her chaos.

She wakes every morning without applying her lipstick, nor the color that so often shaded her eyelids. The charcoal enhancements around her brows are kept, if only for the sake of normalcy, to remind herself stubbornly that she will recover. For the wound in her belly, she allowed the priestesses to bring dressings and leave outside her door. The rest, she'd done herself, sometimes in the span of multiple tries. She's grown more adept at listening now, at feeling with her hands. She gathers her magic daily, pulling the pieces of herself back together. Let your chaos explode, Tissaia had urged, and with it, so, too had Yennefer.

In the afternoons, when the priestesses are tending their plants, she's begun to take walks as gracefully as she can, feeling the sunlight filtering down onto her flesh and breathing in air that is too good for her. The servants of Melitele, having sized her up well, leave her be and don't offer help, and in return, Yennefer asks rather than demands. She's grown to quietly appreciate them, these benevolent fanatics, though it's unlikely she'll express it.

But they fall in her esteem far more quickly than they'd risen into it when she hears her door open, the smell of sweat and horse -- a singular horse, to be precise -- permeating her room. The curtains to her room are thrown open, the daylight a small, warm comfort to the darkness behind her lids. All at once, a thousand words, a hundred encounters flood her hardened sorceress' heart at the name. Yen. They've dared to tell him where she is, dared to invite him into what has become her private retreat as she recovers, a screen for her weakness. And yet, of course he's found her again, she thinks bitterly. He'll always find her, for that's the nature of his wish. Bound, and together in fate -- by his will. She'll never know whether what she'd felt for him was true, and for that, she's certain she'll never forgive him.

She rises from her chair facing the window, her back to him. Her shoulders square and stiffen in anger, lips thinning. Her weaknesses are not for him to see.

"You've no right to call me that," she snaps. He'd lost that right in the very beginning, though she'd been fool enough not to realize it until the Owl Mountains, with tears streaming down her cheeks. She will never allow him the privilege to see them again. "The priestesses sent word, I suppose? How generous of them, to honor my wishes as carefully as they considered yours."

Her magic is not so weakened, preoccupied with restoring her sight that she cannot throw him out. She considers it seriously, then raises a hand in his direction. A faint glow of blue surrounds her fingers, but then it's the door being shoved, not Geralt -- closed tightly behind him.

[gwynbleids]

"Yen."

He repeats softly, despite the way she prickles at it. It slips out unconsciously, there's pity in his voice that he knows she'll resent but he can't reel it back once he's cast it out there. She still stands so tall and so proud, like she always has, but he's more intuitive than that and she knows it. He's not fooled.

She's not turning to look him in the eyes with all the disdain and venom he expects he'll have earned.

He doesn't flinch when the door slams, he steps closer. His movements are quiet, a loud Witcher is a dead one after all. He moves until he's behind her, close enough to breathe in that familiar scent. It tickles his nostrils and tempts him to give in and seek out the warmth of her skin against his, rekindle the fire once again and forget everything else.

His arm aches with the want to raise his hand and simply rest it on her, but he fights the urge as he breathes in again. The smell of her is duller, mixed with the faintest smell of ash and blood. Some things you can't scrub out.

"Not the priestesses. Triss" He should defend their honour, but unfortunately he'll have to throw Triss under the cart. "I thought you were dead." That his wish went unfulfilled. That he lost her.

"I won't pretend to understand the nuances of a mage's battle, but I know nobody left that hill unscathed. That includes you."

[thesorceress]

"Me," snarls Yen, an angry cat as she turns to face him at last. Even in the half-shadows of the room, his witcher's sight will notice a milky sheen over the eyes that had once been so vibrant and purple, at once cold as ice and burning hot with the lightning held behind them.

"A Nilfgaardian mage took advantage of a unique opportunity whilst I sought to save what was left of our forces. A sorceress with abilities that flourished under the sun of prophecy and superstition." The words are practically spat, and her tone brooks no doubt that she would have struck this mage first, and brutally, had she been given the chance. "I see no one, and I wish to see no one. The priestesses are wise enough to have sized me up. Triss --" So the woman she would call the closest thing she has to a friend in the world survived her burns. Yen turns away, not wishing him to see the relief in her face. "Triss suffers from a soft heart. You've that in common, the pair of you."

For what else had led him to bind them together? Lust, perhaps, or fascination. But more likely, it was desperation, borne of his pity for her. His mistake lay in allowing a golden dragon to tell her the truth of their bond.

"Look, then." Her tone is cold. "Satisfy your guilt. See what a mage's battle has wrought." Not death. Not for her, but for many of the braver of their numbers. "I hear they're erecting a bloody obelisk over the bones of my comrades."

[gwynbleids]

A wince dies in Geralt's throat when she turns. Her eyes are always the first thing he looks for, so naturally he zeroes in on the familiar sheen of blinded eyes. He knows better than to mention it, he dodges it like he'd dodge a trick shot in a fight. He'll let her raise it in her own time.

"I saw it. In a dream. Up a hill." And this time he does wince as he says that. Not only does he give credence to the idea that he's a gentle-hearted fool, but also because it's just a dumb thing to say. But it's true.

"I couldn't bear to read the last name and know it was you. Don't blame Triss. I needed to know, and I needed to see you for myself. It has nothing to do with my guilt." Just his stupid, gentle heart. He reaches for her, slowly and carefully letting his fingers graze her chin as he urges her to turn back to him. "Things are changing fast, Yen. I need you. If not as a friend, as a lover, then as an ally."

lmao i do that all the time

[thesorceress]

His touch -- it reminds her of the Owl Mountains. How neither of them had quite known what tenderness was, but they'd learned it all the same, for each other, and because they had wanted to. She remembers baring her heart to him, as though she were half a child again in Aretuza. I wished to be important to someone, someday, she'd said.

And she is important to him. Yennefer's eyes close as a tempest of emotions arrests her by the throat. He had come looking for her because he'd thought her dead -- the last name on the obelisk. She sees it now: He's grown to love her, as far as his witcher's heart allows him to love. More the fool, him, for binding his calamities to her own. He couldn't even make the journey to read a stone, for which the corpses of her brethren would have little regard or feeling. He had to find her.

Geralt is no Istredd. And the wish -- the wish had been made out of desperation to save her from herself.

Yennefer knows this. She knows all of it.

"I've precious little to offer you," she says at last, her voice constricted. She nearly despises him again for touching her, for drawing her back to him. "My sight is --" Her lips purse, the bottom one trembling. "The weakest mage in Aretuza could aim a spell at me, and I wouldn't have the wherewithal to stop it."

Geralt. She wants to say his name.

[gwynbleids]

Although he'll never know for sure if it's just the consequence of his wish, he feels the call for Yennefer deep in him. As if it's an innate sense, that he can feel her pull on him no matter how far apart they are.

It's dangerous how he feels. He fell fast, and he's still falling. He feels almost suspended in the terror one might feel before they hit the ground, but it's wrapped up in such a sweet bliss that for a second he might almost forget that they're not a fated match. He has nothing to offer her. She's vibrant and ambitious and powerful, even now. He can see past the bruised pride.

"There won't be other mages where I need you. You'll be safe, to heal." He offers, wary of offering anything that seems too much like pity. "You're the only mage- fuck it. You're the only person I trust with this, Yen. I need you. She needs you."

[thesorceress]

"She?" Yennefer repeats, her eyes narrowing. It's a quick flash, like lightning, the reflex she shows that another woman has drawn Geralt's attention, but no doubt he'll notice it. After all, she's been fool enough to let him in. This time, she does not ask: She reads, and quickly. She can do that much without her sight.

When she's finished, the expectations and assumptions she'd felt -- feline in their swiftness to appear -- fade from her face. "Your famed Child Surprise," she says, irony warring with astonishment in her tone. When they'd spoken together in the mountains, she'd become angry with him for his hypocrisy of deriding her desire to have a child, whilst he himself had cheated with Destiny to find one of his own. But Geralt had not wanted the child; had not wanted to subject it to the life he'd been forced into. Now, it seems, all has changed. No doubt because his child was in Cintra, which has fallen. The girl has no one, save for him -- and the others at Kaer Morhen.

The poor, wretched thing.

"Shall I remind you of our last conversation about motherhood?" she asks crisply, in spite of her curiosity. "You thought I'd be dreadful with children. To what do I owe the pleasure of your change of heart?"

[gwynbleids]

Oh, he notices that flicker. There's a greedy part of his mind that feels pleased that she still has a care for him. He's not completely dead to her, even after he fooled her for a time.

He doesn't say anything, which is enough to validate her suspicion as to who he's referring to. He allows her to come to the conclusion herself. Although he expects the dig about their.. unpleasant conversation, it still digs in like a knife through the ribs. He's not sure that he doesn't agree with what he said, but the way he said it left something to be desired. He's given up trying to put things delicately.

"She's not a normal child." He lets it sink in, but not long enough to be offended by the implication that it takes an irregular child to suit Yennefer's supposed mothering abilities.

"She's a source. She has trances, nightmares.. They're getting worse, she's starting to make predictions."

[thesorceress]

A Source? Well, that's interesting indeed. Whatever reply Yennefer had expected to fall from Geralt's lips, it wasn't that. She's silent for a moment, peeling raven curls away from a heated cheek. A Source -- only a truly powerful mage could apprentice such a thing. There are too many ways that a Source at Kaer Morhen could go wrong: anything from an overturned table to a blown-apart witcher. The girl has no more control over her abilities with magic as she does as a medium.

"And so you come to me." Yennefer's hands fly to her hips, and it's as though they've settled into their old habits again. There's a proud kind of satisfaction in it: No mage is more trusted, more powerful, than she. "I should hope you didn't try any of your witcher's potions on her. Anything unnatural could aggravate the girl's symptoms. What precisely has she prophesied?"

Academic interest seems to have replaced the knife that is Yennefer's words, the blade and animosity both temporarily sheathed.

[gwynbleids]

Geralt tries not to openly admire the shift in her demeanour, but her intellectual curiosity is just one of the many reasons why he's so damned bewitched by her. It might have been the sight and smell of her that drew him in, but her mind kept him there. It irritates him to feel smitten again when she's made her feelings perfectly clear, so he presses his lips into a thin line and nods.

"Yes. You." It should please her to know that.

"Nothing magic." He defends, and he hates that he feels like a little boy trying to hide a mistake from his mother.

"Mushrooms. Help with the training- We stopped." He says, he nearly needs to choke it out but there's no sense hiding it. He moves on to the more pressing question.

"She prophesied death. Mine. Coën's, too. I think he took it personally."

[thesorceress]

She oughtn't be surprised, Yennefer supposes, milky-violet eyes narrowing. What else would a band of witchers know what to do with a girl? Certainly not treat her as one. Certainly, they would train her as though she was some lost little boy, tossed out of his mother's arms and before the looming shadows of Kaer Morhen. But a Source is no ordinary girl, and she requires no ordinary training.

His death -- Coën's. A furrow appears between her dark brows, shock dawning in her belly. Yennefer bites back her questions of mushrooms for the nonce: When? How? She won't lose him, so long as they're of a proximity. She cannot lose him, and so she won't. Even evading death isn't outside the realm of possibility.

"I can imagine anyone would," she answers briskly. Then, with her brow smoothing, her tone less biting, "Geralt --" No. She cannot ask him that. And yet, she does. "Not soon?" She's surprised that more of a shadow hasn't fallen over him at the news, though for all she can see, one has.

[gwynbleids]

Geralt can't help searching her expression for signs of concern. It's an ugly trait, this neediness he feels when he's around her. He's never dwelled on the opinions of others for long- if he did he wouldn't last long as a Witcher. Why her opinion is still paramount to him is beyond his understanding.

It doesn't stop him from deliberately debasing himself and practically trying to lose her good favour, either. Why he riles her up when it bothers him so much is another mystery for another day.

"Afraid she didn't give me a date. Might ruin the surprise." He retorts, the humour is counteracted by the coldness in his voice.

"Does it worry you?" He can't help asking, searching her dulled eyes. His expression softens as he drinks in her features, emboldened by his confidence that she can't see his face.

[thesorceress]

"Don't joke," she chides. "Damn it, don't joke." Of course she's worried. While cheating death may not be outside the realm of possibility, a Source is a medium. They can't manipulate the truth, any more than they can control what comes from their mouths, and so what the girl's prophesied must be legitimate, as far as the girl's power knows it to be.

"I thought I'd lost you on the mountain." Left him behind, more like. "Now I fear I'll lose you tomorrow. I won't live like that. Geralt --" This time, she reaches for him. She nearly misses, but at last, she finds his cheek in the empty air, touching it. Reminding herself that he's living, albeit with a slow heartbeat, and standing before her. For a moment, she merely stares into empty space, loathing it. Loathing that she can't have something so simple as seeing his face.

"No more mushrooms, if you please. No such remedies, natural or unnatural. I won't allow it." She draws a breath. She's lost her sight, not her magic. Not her wits. She can aid the Source, albeit with some risk. "Your Surprise requires a powerful mage, indeed. And one who possesses the fortitude to apprentice another." That truly only leaves her, if Triss has tried and failed. For as much as Yennefer likes Triss, she's not fool or generous enough to say that Triss Merigold is more powerful than she.

Geralt can read between the words: She's decided to accompany him to Kaer Morhen, even if she doesn't say as much.

[gwynbleids]

As soon as he realises that she's not reaching to swipe at him, he helps as best he can by leaning in to her touch. His hand moves to cup over hers, as if silently asking that she keep it there and never move it again.

"We'll heed your advice." He speaks for all, although opinions of Yennefer are mixed at Kaer Morhen. Ultimately, Ciri is his responsibility just as Yennefer is in many ways. All because he makes wishes without a care for destiny. He's coming to regret that.

The implication is understood by Geralt, who does not allow himself to ask for confirmation on the off chance she might take umbrage with how he words it and rescinds her offer. He has not managed to make his case eloquently as of late. Actually, that's been a long standing tradition.

"We'll ride when you've rested. She'll go nowhere until winter passes and it's safe."

[thesorceress]

"No," says Yennefer, resolute. "I've rested enough. My wounds --" her hands fly to her belly, feeling only a light tenderness there, "-- are healed. It's only my eyes that will require ... experimentation. My vision won't be restored with rest, Geralt. Though," she continues, her gaze sliding sightlessly to him, "perhaps they can recover with one of the rare, potent treatments hoarded in your storerooms."

She peels raven-black curls away from her cheek, and slides her hands to her waist. "We'll ride in two days' time," she decides for them. "Two, for your own sake. Then we'll tether my stallion to Roach, so that I needn't find myself shoulders-deep in a bog. I know your unnatural hatred of portals." It is a pity, truly, that he so despises a miracle of magic.

Such decisions are usually sealed with something meaningful, some promise. She wants him to hold her. She wants to be held, to be loved. But they're only just regaining each other's trust now, and it would be foolish to expect more. Still, she rises onto her toes and kisses his other cheek. "Will you find another room, tonight?"

[gwynbleids]

"Two days." He repeats, firmly in agreement with her plan. Although he could argue, he's eager to make their way back to Ciri and have both her and Yennefer in close proximity where he knows he can keep them safe.

The kiss takes him by surprise, but he wastes no time letting an arm circle her so he can rest his hand on the small of her back. He doesn't want the space to come back between them again.

"They'll turn your eyes yellow." He warns of the treatments, unsure how serious she is in her thoughts. Sometimes what seems like a fleeting idea is something she's become set on already. Speaking of..

"Have I earned a room, or shall I join Roach in the stables?"

[thesorceress]

"I know the stories," Yennefer scoffs, unafraid. What else can one expect from someone who would like to believe that possibilities in magic far exceed the boundaries? And if the potions should prove too risky, there are a precious few within the Brotherhood whom Yennefer still trusts. She doesn't mention that, though, uncertain that Kaer Morhen would be welcoming to another mage, and of the belief that explanations were better made after invitations. More seriously, she adds, "Trust in me, Geralt. Trust in me with your magics and your ward." That is all she asks.

As to the rest, she tosses her black curls haughtily from her face. Predictably, they settle into precisely the position they'd held before. "You'll summon a bath first, and I'll reassess. If I permit you to sleep with Roach, I'll be able to discern the color, breed, and age of your horse on our journey. I don't intend to feel nauseated each time I find myself downwind of you."

He stinks of travel, of course. Why allow it to worsen?

[gwynbleids]

Well, that answers that. He makes a mental note to address it firmly later, unwilling to destroy the goodwill he's accrued between them by some miracle.

"I trust you with her. That's why I'm here." He says plainly, with all the emotional delivery of a wooden plank. He conveniently leaves out the magics part of that, but she moves on and so does he.

"I'll smell again in a day." He points out, but he doesn't seem strongly opposed and his shoulders sag in resignation. "Do you trust me to wash myself or will you supervise?" Again. He recalls one of their first memories and one of his fondest. It's a sly remark and he fully expects to be shut down for it.