Work Text:
Tissaia stands hunched over her ancient oaken desk studying a map of The Continent. She has been at this for hours, plotting the lines that the Kaedwenian and Temerian armies had marched that day. She was looking for something…anything to help her understand the massacres that had ensued.
Her eyes still burn from the smoke that had filled Aretuza and from the grief that had poured from them after.
Nilfgaard was storming The Continent. Slashing, burning, killing, and raping their way north.
All because of her catastrophic failures in judgment. For hours, she’d stood here, still in her nightgown, picking apart every bit of geography that might have contributed to the absolute defeat of the Northern armies. Nothing explained it and she knew the truth.
Every action she’d taken related to the Nilfgaard aggression, every decision had slit the throats of each and every one of those soldiers. Their blood was now on her hands.
Vilgefortz had been a betrayal, yes, but his betrayal was expected. She'd known the man had his own objectives, though she'd hadn't quite grasped the depth of his duplicity. What Tissaia had not counted on was the betrayal from the mages. Her girls. The mages she brought up by blood, sweat, and tears.
Sabrina. Keira. Philippa. Even sweet Triss who had killed hundreds of enemy soldiers at Tissaia’s behest that day at Sodden Hill.
They all had seen what Tissaia had not.
No. It could not be called a betrayal if their actions held the truth. They had all tried to warn her.
Tissaia startles at the sound of a knock. The heavy door of her office swings open. There is only one person who'd be so bold.
Yennefer.
Tissaia barely spares her a glance. She would love nothing more than to wrap the younger woman up in her arms. To comfort and be comforted. But she cannot look away from the maps. There are so many things she needs to think about. So many things requiring her attention.
“Tissaia,” Yennefer ventures.
This earns her no response.
“Tissaia look at me,” Yennefer says with more force.
Tissaia looks up, ignoring the look of concern on Yennefer’s face.
“I just got word, Redania and Kaedwen lost another battle.”
Tissaia’s voice sounds both exhausted and manic. There is a broken and frenzied quality to it that Yennefer doesn’t like. She studies the woman carefully.
“Since when have you cared about the movement of troops?”
Tissaia stares at Yennefer, incredulous. She knows that Yennefer cares little for politics; however, the idea that Yennefer does not seem to understand is baffling. It is so obvious.
“Since I became responsible for the death of each and every soldier.”
The scene of carnage from Sodden flashes into her mind. She had borne witness to the final moments of hundreds of soldiers that day, and those images came unbidden to her mind. Only, she had not been ultimately responsible for the deaths of the soldiers at Sodden. The mages, yes. But not the soldiers. Today was different.
“This war was inevitable.”
Tissaia hears the pain and exhaustion in Yennefer’s voice.
Yennefer, who had never wanted to come back to Aretuza. Who had returned with a simple “please.”
Now she is looking at Tissaia for an answer and she has none to give.
“Was it?”
The edge to Tissaia’s voice raises Yennefer’s hackles predictably.
Yennefer continues talking about Ciri, voice laced with impatience, but Tissaia isn't listening, is only thinking of how her failure in judgement has brought Nilfgaard down on their heads.
Yennefer concedes that Tissaia had helped keep Ciri safe, but Tissaia would never have given Ciri over. Ciri was Yennefer's child. She could never have done that.
“Your pain is my pain.”
Tissaia has said these words to Yennefer countless times over the years, but this morning, the words hit her in the chest like a crashing wave of chaos. The realization leaves her breathless.
Her pain. Tissaia had always felt Yennefer's pain, had always shared the hurt that the younger woman felt. Their connection, firmly fused through the sheer magnitude of Yennefer's conduit moment had assured this.
While Tissaia lived, Yennefer would suffer.
Tissaia studies Yennefer closely, sees the swelling ocean of pain in the younger mage’s violet eyes.
“My pain is your pain,” Yennefer responds.
Tissaia reels and slumps back in her chair. The sheer feeling of it all takes her breath away. She draws a steadying breath.
Yennefer had endured enough pain for 2 or 3 lifetimes. Now Tissaia’s anguish was piled on, where it would stay as long as she lived.
Tissaia glances at the pen knife neatly arranged by her inkwell. It glimmered in the morning sun, a shining promise of the end of their shared suffering.
This would be her ultimate act of love toward the woman she cherished but could never have.
Yennefer sat on the desk, eyes fixed with a troubled stare.
“They make us sacrifice so much. The cost of learning magic,” Tissaia begins shakily.
Sacrifice, indeed. Tissaia thought about everything she’d done, everything that had been done to her. For what? The stability and peace of The Continent?
She continues with a heavy sigh.
“When I came to Aretuza, if a sorceress fell pregnant, she was kicked out.”
She grits her teeth against the pained look on Yennefer 's face. Another way Tissaia had hurt Yennefer.
“Enchantment was never about clearer access to chaos. It was about getting a seat at the table.” Tissaia’s voice cracks and she swallows the sorrow rising in her chest. Now is not the time to fall apart.
Not only had Tissaia gotten her seat, she’d held open the door for many powerful sorceresses to sit at her side. And those sorceresses? Many dead, including dear friends. The images of Coral, pinned to a tree, and Vanielle, pierced with arrows flashed through her mind. Their blood was on her hands, too.
“And The Brotherhood, they called me bold,” Tissaia whispers tremulously. “I was just desperate. The first of many mistakes.”
Countless mistakes, none of which were forgivable. She resumes her meticulous mental accounting of these mistakes, gazing vacantly across the room.
“Stop it!” Yennefer hisses.
Tissaia did not want to fight with Yennefer, not now. Not at the end. But she could never stop herself from meeting Yennefer’s ire.
“Look around, it’s all gone. Forget this, go to Brokilon. Salvage what you can with the witcher.”
Though Tissaia tries to keep the edge out of her voice at the utterance of the word Witcher, she can not. She knew that Geralt would be fine for Yennefer. He would care for her out of a love formed at the whim of a last wish. But, same as Istredd years ago, he would never be enough for her. Yennefer deserved everything. Tissaia had once thought she could be the one to give it to her.
The Witcher. As much as Tissaia disliked the man, she had to admit he'd never hurt Yennefer the way she had.
“Geralt's getting help,” Yennefer snaps as she looks at Tissaia incredulously. “My focus is here, on Ciri. If I go to him without her, I’ve failed.”
Tissaia sighs. The sadness in Yennefer’s stance was almost too much to bear. Despite being robbed of her womb, Yennefer had finally done it. Had finally become a mother. And now, because of Tissaia’s enormous miscalculation, Ciri had been ripped away to gods know where. Tissaia knows that Yennefer will turn over every grain of sand in The Spheres to find her daughter.
“There are worse failures.”
The defeat in Tissaia’s voice is palpable, and hangs heavy between them for a moment.
Yennefer cannot stomach it.
“Spare me the self-loathing bullshit! This feeling sorry for yourself, and letting Vilgefortz make you question who you are? This isn’t you!”
Tissaia feels the flare of Yennefer’s chaos. The temperature in the room seems to rise as the fire is stoked in the hearth and the sconces burn brighter.
Tissaia clenches her jaw to stifle the sob that is swelling in her chest. That Yennefer thought Tissaia had given a moment’s thought to Vilgefortz in the aftermath of the coup would be laughable, if the circumstances hadn’t been so heart-rending.
Tissaia stares down at the desk. She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the wood, polished to a high shine. She would never get used to the silver hair. She would not have to.
“I know you…at your core,” Yennefer continues. She sounds desperate.
Tissaia had believed this once–that they knew each other to the core–but Yennefer didn’t know her at all. If she knew the failure, the shame, how out of control she had allowed things to become, she would not be here, or anywhere near Aretuza.
No, Yennefer did not know her at all.
Tissaia snaps her attention back to Yennefer who was still tearfully speaking.
“You are the strongest force I’ve ever known. Remember your strength.”
But Tissaia does not feel strong. She is a weak, obsolete relic whose careful machinations had only led to ruin.
Tissaia can no longer look into Yennefer's eyes. The pain there is too great, and she knows she is the reason for it. Her pain was Yennefer's pain.
“You are Tissaia de Vries, the beating heart of Aretuza, and we need you.”
Tissaia scoffed. No one needed her. They never had. Another lie she’d told herself throughout the centuries.
“I need you.”
Tissaia could not take any more. She rose quickly and pulled Yennefer into a crushing embrace. She knew this would not alleviate Yennefer's pain, but soon she would give her that final gift. But just for now, she wanted to hold Yennefer once more. To be held.
They are interrupted by a soft knock on the door. Triss, letting them know it was time for the novices’ service.
Yennefer pulls away from Tissaia, studying her face carefully.
“Go. I’ll collect myself and come along. Thank you.”
Yennefer steps away from Tissaia and toward the door, footsteps laden with uncertainty.
Tissaia gives her an encouraging nod, but something is wrong. She studies Tissaia carefully.
“Tissaia?”
Her name comes out as a whisper.
Tissaia holds her gaze on her reflection. She once thought she was striking–face all sharp angles and lines when set with her Rectoress look–and formidable…powerful even. But now she looks soft, weak and broken.
Yennefer strides over to Tissaia, roughly taking the woman by her shoulders, alarm flooding across her face.
“Where is your pendant?”
Tissaia gives Yennefer a sad smile.
“It’s time that another wore it.”
Yennefer's face flashes with anger and disbelief.
“You’re stepping down?”
Yennefer tightens her grasp on Tissaia’s shoulders. She needs to understand this.
Tissaia closes her eyes. Yennefer’s fingers are digging into her flesh and the pain grounds her here with Yennefer.
“Yennefer…you…you have been the bright spot of my life,” Tissaia says, voice trembling. “And I would love to see you through the next leg of your journey…” Tissaia trails off, trying to find adequate words to make Yennefer understand.
Yennefer tightens her grip, her hands are beginning to ache, but she can’t let go. She needs to keep Tissaia here. With her.
“Tissaia…”
A tear courses down Yennefer’s cheek, threatening to open a floodgate for the others she’d been holding in.
“There is a cost I must pay,” Tissaia’s voice falters. “There is always a cost to chaos. It was the first thing I taught you.”
Yennefer grits her teeth, fingers cramping with the effort of gripping Tissaia’s arms.
Yennefer releases Tissaia’s shoulders from her grasp and gently takes the woman’s face in her hands.
Tissaia looks back at Yennefer, tears now brimming in her eyes. She shakes her head, tries to pull away from Yennefer.
“Yennefer…”
The name felt so soft in her mouth. It was a name she hadn’t called the younger mage in their beginning. Another way she’d hurt Yennefer.
“Sometimes a flower is just a–”
“NO!”
Yennefer’s cry of frustration startles Tissaia and her eyes widen.
“No,” Yennefer says, softer now. She gently brushes her thumbs across the curve of Tissaia’s cheekbones. Slowly, Yennefer presses her lips to Tissaia’s, carefully, as if the woman was made of glass.
Tissaia stiffens and pulls back. But when she does, she sees the adoration brimming in Yennefer’s eyes, and sees the concern threatening to spill over.
For a moment, she wants to rage at Yennefer.
Tissaia has meticulously planned what was to come next. Extensive instructions for Rita were tucked under her pendant. Beside it a stack of letters to the mages who had betrayed her. An apology for which she deserved no forgiveness. At the center of her desk, the letter to Yennefer.
But Tissaia had not planned for Yennefer. Could never make a plan for Yennefer.
She stares at Yennefer, bewildered.
“What…?”
Yennefer cuts her off with another kiss, slow and languid, but with all the feeling she was trying to convey to Tissaia.
After a moment, Tissaia softens into the kiss, the heavy weight that had been resting on her shoulders lifting momentarily.
Yennefer breaks away from Tissaia, maintaining her careful hold on Tissaia’s face.
“You still have so much left to give,: Yennefer whispers, placing another kiss to the woman’s forehead.
Tissaia sighs and presses her forehead against Yennefer’s, leaning into her, suddenly almost too weary to stand. She is surprised at the safety she feels, here with Yennefer.
Tissaia has not felt safe in a very long time.
The constant political maneuvering was one thing–she deeply understood how vulnerable that left her– but more than that, Tissaia had never truly felt safe from herself.
The intrusive thoughts that had plagued her for as long as she could remember, her constant companions, had prevented her from ever feeling true safety.
But now, leaning into Yennefer, breath mingling in the small space between them, Tissaia feels a growing warmth–a spark trying to catch kindling–within her.
She feels safe.
“Stay with me?” Yennefer pleads.
Tissaia nods, leaning heavily into Yennefer’s arms.
It was going to take more than this kiss between them to convince Tissaia that she still had a place on The Continent, but it was a promise from Yennefer to Tissaia, and Tissaia made a promise in return.
“I’ll stay with you.”